


Strong Safety

by queenmab_scherzo



Series: In the Deed the Glory [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Sports, American Football, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Fluffy Ending, Football Jargon, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sports Injury, cat as plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-09 17:26:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7810738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo/pseuds/queenmab_scherzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky figure out how to play in the NFL and how to live 800 miles apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Week 3 - Jacksonville Jaguars @ Carolina Panthers

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Targeting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4849256/chapters/11109803). 
> 
> I bet this won't make sense without reading Targeting, but it's possible. Basically all you missed is Steve and Bucky playing together in high school, and then against each other in college. Bucky beat Steve, Steve beat Bucky, Steve kissed Bucky, Bucky took down Hydra. As per.

"Barnes! What the hell are you doing?!"

The voice is a deep bark behind him, like a dog trying to bust through a fence, and Bucky's heart stops beating for 0.7 seconds and by the time it's started again, fucking T'Challa, that opportunistic asshole quarterback, has already lit up the offense. So Bucky is _about_ 0.7 seconds late on the tackle. He watches a bulky tight end buzz by and he can already hear—

"What the hell was that!" The linebacker coach squawks at him. It's the best way to describe how the man talks. He's a tropical bird with too much testosterone. He squawks. "Barnes, we don't put you out here to fucking spectate!"

"Yes, sir."

"You have the speed to cover the weak side, but only if you pay attention!"

"Got it."

"Get your head out of your ass!"

"Got it, sir." Across the field, Bucky happens to make eye contact with T'Challa, and they have a _moment_ , a moment where they both _know_ they're thinking the same thing—squawking parrots, NAFs who need to take a few calming breaths. Bucky clenches his jaw to keep from smiling.

T'Challa, of all people. Nice to know he's a normal guy with a normal sense of humor.

The Carolina Panthers are installing early-down coverage in the sub-package, which means the back-ups like Bucky get to embarrass themselves jogging through a playbook everyone else already knows. They run a few more plays out of the Cover 2, and the more Bucky actually _does_ it, the more it sinks into his brain. 

Unfortunately, the Panther offense is boss as hell and T'Challa's out here making fools of people all afternoon, like the mid-season scorch don't bother him none.

("Keep pounding," T'Challa recites the Panther motto as he thumps Bucky's shoulder.

"I heard that," Bucky says back. He's still not sure if T'Challa is messing with him or not.)

Bucky has played two games in the NFL, now, but each week has its own little tweaks. Enough to be confusing. Like in week one, Bucky blitzed basically every down he played, whereas this week they're counting on him to hang back and give that three-deep look.

… It makes more sense once you've done it a few times.

"Barnes! Focus!"

"Yes, sir." Bucky's good at not smiling, but he kind of _feels_ like smiling. They haven't pulled him out yet.

"This is the big leagues!" More squawking. "You can't get by on athletic ability like you did in college, son!"

Joke's on you, college wasn't no walk in the park, either, especially when Bucky spent every day trying to outsmart his own body.

Which— _duh_. Outsmart them.

He settles into a ready stance and thinks, _T'Challa favors the weak side_ , and he thinks, _oh, just because_ we're _working on early downs doesn't mean the_ offense _is_ , and he thinks, _hell, they're about to run the ball against our classic pass-defense_.

Fuckers.

The running back gives it away. He's cracking his knuckles and chomping at the bit. No doubt. Bucky _knows_ they're going to run. He angles his hips a little, slides over to the strong side.

"Barnes, if you leave that curl flat open one more—"

" _Hike!_ "

T'Challa sets the offense in motion.

Wall of black jerseys. Defensive linemen. Eight inches taller than Bucky. He catches a glimpse of the running back and he books it, flat-out, and barges around the end of the line and it's like a head-on collision between two freight trains, but out of nowhere, like a blind corner, like all of a sudden Bucky's vertebrae are vibrating with the aftershock.

Williams is on his back.

And it's—white. Everything. Peter Parker on the stretcher and Steve struggling to breathe. For a moment it looks like sirens, sounds like sirens in Bucky's head—but then Williams sits up and laughs. And he holds out a hand, and Bucky takes it and helps him to his feet.

"Damn, Barnes, you got some anger to let out?"

"You good?"

"I'm good!" Williams is a clown. He laughs so easy, plus he's cute, so cake with a cherry on top. If people eat cherries on cakes. It's nice, is the point, and it reminds Bucky of playing football—like, _playing_ , as in, not the drudge work and chronic pain and fake-chocolate protein shakes.

So that's the best part of practice. 7-on-7s and live scenarios.

The worst part?

Fucking vets with all their fucking equipment like "carry my helmet" and "carry my pads" and "here's a stack of dirty socks that I'll never wear again because I'm a rich fuck who can buy new ones every week I just want to see the look on your face when you smell them." On the one hand, when you're spending all your time with James Fucking Rhodes there's nothing really to complain about. But on the other hand, _fuck_. Just because the man had ten interceptions last year doesn't mean his socks don't stink.

That's the worst part of practice.

At least all the rookies are in the boat with him, you know? At least there's some stocky kid from UCONN with three sets of pads slung over his shoulders, and at least he's panting a little harder than Bucky.

The UCONN kid is talking to another linebacker about the Giants game, which is—you know—of _interest_ to Bucky, so he listens as close as he can without giving up the fact he's straight up eavesdropping.

"… beat Philadelphia pretty bad, last week."

"I saw it, man, it was embarrassing," one of the big Carolina vets says. "Even _we_ could do better than that against Manning. It's like they ain't even try."

"Their defense needs help, bro."

"They hired that cat from Southeast," the vet points out. "Looks like that ain't doing nobody no good."

Bucky hides his smile with a big yawn.

He wasn't surprised when Rumlow escaped all the drama, since morality isn't exactly a key element to professional sports, and anyway what "morality" are they talking about, you know? considering Rumlow's name was CC'd to like two of the documents Bucky could find at most, so it's all hearsay or whatever. Rumlow wasn't even that bad, or Bucky didn't think so—Steve always gets really colorful when he talks about him, though. And everyone else always said Rumlow was a dick. Even Stricklan. Who was also a dick.

But here's the thing, for Bucky, at least: there's a difference between a dick and a mad-scientist calling himself a doctor. Like the kind of doctor whose answer to everything is _drug him until he can't feel it_.

Bucky reserves his deepest feelings for the Kevorkians and Frankensteins and Zolas of the world, not dicks like Brock Rumlow.

Bucky's teammates are deep in conversation still, and now they've moved on to the Carolina playbook.

"… open to blitz, because of the nickelback we brought in?"

"Yeah, something like that," the veteran shrugs.

Someone bumps into Bucky from the left.

"What about you, Barnes?" James Rhodes calls him Barnes, still, and frankly, Bucky doesn't know what the _hell_ to call him back. He's James _Rhodes_. You address people like that as "Mr. Rhodes" or "sir" or just avert your eyes in respectful silence.

Bucky blinks at him. "What about what?" (High-five for that respectful silence.)

"What's your job when we bring in the nickelback?" Rhodes asks.

Because his brain is garbage, the first place it goes is bad jokes about shitty Canadian bands. So there's that. And then he tries to conjure an image of their nickel formation in his garbage brain and it's there but it's all X's and O's in two dimensions. Unhelpful.

"I'm, um." Bucky shifts the two sets of pads a little. They're slung over his right shoulder, which is getting a little sore, but his left shoulder is gonna be sore regardless. It's a losing battle. "Stay outside the … running back," he says, which is true, but doesn't really answer the question.

Rhodes watches him for a moment and it twists Bucky's stomach up all in knots. X's and O's. They were just fucking talking about Brock Rumlow and the New York Giants, so where did shitty 90s music come in? Fuck.

After like three seconds, which feel like approximately three thousand centuries, Rhodes finally looks away. "Gotta learn the playbook, kid."

"Yeah."

Getting there.

Back in the locker room, the rookies are all taking care of gear while the vets take care of—well, their social lives. That's pretty much it. Vets are lazy. At least when they're off the field.

While he's sorting through equipment, Bucky runs through defensive schemes in his head.

_Primary pass responsibility is the curl, unless Stem 2 is called, then give the defensive end a buck call. Sink on number two until threatened by number three. If two tight ends, call weak side. If double slot, call wide side or Jacksonville tendency._

"Barnes."

Bucky looks up from where he's crouching on the teal carpet and his first thought is _Wow T'Challa is really tall_. His second thought is _Of fucking course T'Challa is the only rookie who doesn't double as a valet for vets_.

"A word?" T'Challa folds his arms and straightens his shoulders and Bucky isn't super clear on the guy's background but African royalty sounds about right.

With an old-man-old-knees kind of groan, Bucky pushes himself to his feet to face T'Challa. "What's up?"

T'Challa has a quarterback look in his eyes. Like he's calculating trajectories and judging Bucky's angles before they even happen. Steve does that too, like he lives his life with an open-book-policy, but at least when Steve does it Bucky doesn't worry about sustaining six stab-wounds from that scowl alone.

"Try not to put anyone in the hospital, Barnes."

Oh.

"Oh."

"If you have to be violent, so be it," T'Challa goes on, "but save it for Sundays. Try not to put our best players into a coma."

Bucky tries to gather his thoughts beyond "Yeah. I know," but he kind of gets it, he gets what T'Challa is saying—and if it wasn't Williams, who could take a blindside from a dump truck, he'd be in bigger trouble—but it was _Williams_ , one of the best running backs in the world, _no fucking big deal_ , and Bucky let loose on him like a thug in a dark alley. So all he says is "I know" and for good measure, "I'm sorry."

"You _should_ be," T'Challa spits. "You should be sorry. I won't have you hurting my teammates, Barnes."

"Yeah."

"I don't know how you did things at Southeast," he adds, "but I look out for my people. Maybe university was different for you. Considering all the things you have done—you're lucky your coach took the fall."

Right about now, Bucky notices a sharp ache in his teeth, and he realizes he's been clenching his jaw. He blows cold air out through his nose and tries to relax. "Yeah."

"Carolina may be willing to give you a chance, but if you can't control your anger, _I_ will not be so understanding."

T'Challa says it as if Bucky could just undo everything, as if he could just delete the emails on his computer without any remorse, as if he could ever forget Parker and Rogers and Wilson, god, he had _nightmares_ about Sam Wilson getting racked by players in Southeast jerseys, players including but not limited to himself. And isn't that funny, of all the things Bucky forgets, hurting his friends is never one of them. That's some Hollywood irony right there.

T'Challa's not done, either. "Peter Parker was eighteen years old."

The way he says it, you'd think the kid lost his _life_.

"Listen, I'm sorry, I was caught up, you know," Bucky says, what happened to their _moment_ for shit's sake, they were cool less than an hour ago; "really, it won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't."

T'Challa brushes past so hot and boiled over that Bucky flinches.

Bucky watches him go and tries to loosen his jaw. God, yeah, his back teeth, and all the way through his sinus cavity, that's a good ache, right there. Almost makes him forget about his shoulder.

 

And then, even when Bucky peels off his shirt and crawls onto his stomach on a table in the training room, his jaw is still kind of sore. A trainer straps an ice pack across his traps and asks him something, but Bucky's afraid talking will hurt even more. It doesn't approach the constant beastly ache in his fucked rotator cuff, but it's spreading to his temple, now. Because a headache will definitely make this day better.

He buries his face in his arms.

_Primary pass responsibility is the curl, unless Stem 2 is called, then give the defensive end a buck call. Sink on number two until threatened by number three. If two tight ends—_

"Look at you, Barnes! Look at all that ice!"

Bucky winces and glances up at the one and only James Rhodes.

"You're too young to be wrapped up like that every day!"

"I'm twenty-two," Bucky points out.

For a moment, Rhodes studies him without speaking. Bucky tries not to make a funny face or anything, but people don't usually watch him that close unless they're about to make a regretful medical diagnosis. Or unless they're Steve. But Steve is a sappy shit. Bucky's pretty sure James Rhodes isn't about to confess his undying love.

Rhodes blinks, finally. He falls into a cushy chair next to Bucky, and a trainer lays a bag of ice across his knee, and he adjusts it. "Rookies got no place visiting the doctors every single day."

Bucky looks at the floor. He doesn't know what to say to James Rhodes, T'Challa hates him, what's next. "It's just my shoulders," he says. "And my head. Upper back. I guess."

"Damn, you about to fall apart, kid?"

"I'm alright," Bucky mumbles.

"You gotta take care of your head, you know," Rhodes says, all casual, like he could be talking about boring weather. "I mean, watch your knees. Everyone knows to watch your knees. But take care of your head, too."

"You sound like my boyfriend," Bucky mutters.

There is a paw print logo on the corner of every cabinet. That kind of décor only really works in a sports facility with a cat mascot, or a nursery for—

Wait.

Shit.

He's afraid to look back at Rhodes, but he does. Nice and slow. Rhodes is still watching him, of course. Like, staring, since Bucky just blew the closet door open.

So Bucky's career was nice and all while it lasted. "Um."

Rhodes shifts the ice pack from his left knee to his right. "I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

Fucking _no_ one does!, and this would be funny except Bucky's ears are still ringing, like that post-sonic-boom fizzle after you put in your headphones but forget to turn down the volume. Even after you rip the earbuds out it's like, shit, it's like a Mack Truck driving through a brick wall except the brick wall is your _head_.

Bucky knows a thing or two about Mack-Truck-level migraines.

He doesn't trust himself to say more than "Yeah."

"He sounds like a smart guy," Rhodes says. Smooth as anything.

Bucky kind of laughs but really it's more like an ugly coughing fit. "Yeah," he croaks, once he can control his voice. "Yeah, one of us gotta be."

Rhodes chuckles. "What does he do?"

Fucking goddamn christshitting—

"Um." Bucky tears through a number of answers in his head, mostly lies. There's a leak in the bag of ice draped over his shoulders. It's dripping onto his wrist. "He works in Chicago."

"Ohhh," is all Rhodes says in this voice that seems all-knowing which, A) It's James Rhodes so duh, B) cool, he's omnipotent and shit and still has the time to talk to Bucky Barnes, and C) fuck everything to hell and back if he ever figures out who—

"Chicago, huh?" he says with a smile.

Bucky nods.

"So you're doing the long-distance thing?"

"Yeah." What could make this conversation worse? Not much, maybe bringing up the fact that your best friend is a thousand miles away and you mostly talk by text and you haven't had sex since Labor day.

"I did that when I first got drafted," Rhodes continues.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, we were together in college." He smiles. "She was great, but it's hard. Did you have the _monogamy_ talk and everything?" he adds with a wink.

At first Bucky is like _what does hating women have to do with my secret boyfriend?_ , but, you know, garbage brain.

"'Cause you know, when you're hundreds of miles apart, you gotta know you're both on the same page," Rhodes says. "You gotta know you're not the only one waiting."

The only one what.

"If you're a one-woman kind of guy, anyway," Rhodes says. Then he blinks and gestures toward Bucky. "Or one-man. You know."

Oh. Oh, _that_ monogamy.

 _Fuck_.

"Yeah," Bucky whispers.

What is _the_ _talk_ , does Steve know about this talk, were they already supposed to have this talk, is Steve waiting for this talk, is it too late to have this talk? It's probably a super normal thing, too, goddammit, but Bucky doesn't exactly know how "normal things" are supposed to work. His last relationship was, what, _nothing._ Dead air.

"You guys will figure it out," Rhodes says.

Cool, great, yeah, as soon as Bucky figures out what he's supposed to figure out. This is why he _never opens his dumbass mouth_ unless he's calling a defensive coverage or ordering a goddamn pizza.

"Yeah."

Rhodes leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. "Look at us. We got a gay white boy in our secondary. We're progressive and shit."

Bucky snorts. He wipes at the puddle of cold water gathering under his forearms.

* * *

The first thing Bucky does when he gets home around 10 is drop his 80-page playbook onto the coffee table with a _bang_.

The second thing he does is open the window. _The_ window, as in, the only window in his tin can apartment (or "cozy studio," as the online-description bragged). It's warm outside, because North Carolina always kind of sits and swelters—but it's October-warm, so now that the sun is down, all that comes in the window is a leafy-smelling breeze.

Okay. Food.

There's a couple chicken breasts on the bottom shelf of the fridge and like six more in the freezer, but that's a lot of work, and Bucky won't ever sleep if the apartment smells like badly-seasoned chicken all night.

He searches the fridge for options that don't involve burners or cooking oil. That rules out eggs. He doesn't feel like leftovers. And if he has to eat another tub of cottage cheese, he probably won't keep it down and _definitely_ won't sleep until like, next July.

He pulls out a jar of mayonnaise and sighs.

He's half-way through constructing a pair of roast beef sandwiches when three different electronic devices blast three different ringtones at him. He twists at a kind of 45-degree angle so he can see his iPad screen where it's sitting on the bar. The FaceTime logo blares at him again and he smiles. As if it could be anyone else.

After he licks his fingers and wipes them on his pants, Bucky swipes to answer the call.

"He-ey, there you are, jerk!" Steve's grainy image grins at him all gold-plated. "I've been trying to call you for like half an hour!"

Bucky turns a little so he can grab a bag of barbecue Lay's from the cabinet and not so he can hide his smile from Steve. "Just got back from practice."

"Are you serious? It's late!"

Bucky shrugs. "Some of us have actual work to do, which you quarterbacks wouldn't know nothing about."

Steve throws his head back and laughs. It makes the picture on the screen skip and also makes Bucky's heart skip, or _whatever_. "Don't complain," Steve finally manages. "We do all our work on the field."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Sure," he mutters, carefully constructing piles of potato chips onto the cheese-sides of his sandwiches.

"Hey," Steve says, softer. "How are you?"

What Bucky thinks is, _I miss you_ , as if that even begins to cover it. Steve would be able to say it better, Mr. Steve "I loved you before I knew what that meant" Rogers, but then again _Steve_ is not a desperate loser who falls apart after a couple days away from his boyfriend.

What Bucky says is, "Okay."

He stacks his sandwiches onto a paper towel, grabs them in one hand and his iPad in the other, and carries it all to the living room. When he digs into the first sandwich, Steve gives him a funny look.

"What's that look for?" Bucky tries, but his mouth is full of like twelve layers of meat, bread, cheese, and chips, so there's probably only one person on earth who could understand him. Which, well.

"Um, Buck?"

Bucky swallows. "I always put chips on my sandwiches."

"Yeah," Steve says slowly. "Yeah, I know that. I just …" He points toward the corner of the screen. "Did you get a cat?"

A what.

Bucky's first instinct is to look at his sandwich, which is in fact just a sandwich, and then at his lap, which is in fact empty. Then he follows Steve's line of sight over his shoulder.

There's a cat in his house.

"I don't have a cat," he says stupidly.

"But there's a cat."

True. It's just sitting there, hanging out on the little four-legged table under the window. Bucky meant to put a lamp there. Now he has a cat there. It's skinny and black with yellow splotches. It blinks at him.

"How did a cat get in your house?"

"It must have come in the window," Bucky says. He sets his sandwich on the coffee table and stands up real careful. All he takes is one step—one little tip-toe that direction, and the cat darts for the window-sill. Bucky freezes. (And ignores Steve's laughter.) The cat stops in the window and blinks at him again.

"Okay," Bucky says, holding up both hands. "You don't gotta run. We're cool. I'll just be right here."

"Are you talking to your cat?"

"It's not my cat," Bucky shoots back. He smiles a little, and feels like all the little cells in all his muscles are singing pretty songs. _Fuck_ off, he can be in love if he wants. He's making him _self_ turn red for fuck's sake.

He takes another huge bite from his sandwich.

Steve talks about his day for a few minutes while Bucky finishes eating. "… which is why you want Bishop on your blind side, you know?"

"I can beat him on the right stunt."

"You're such a nerd, Buck."

"Yeah." Bucky smiles and flashes him a peace sign.

And they get stuck there, a little bit. They just look for a second. Long enough for the earth to go a couple thousand miles, long enough for Bucky to fill his chest one and a half times.

He feels like flowers look right before the sun comes up.

Steve asks, "How was your day?"

and Bucky wilts a little.

"Um. About that."

"… What's wrong?"

Bucky twists the hem of his T-shirt around his fingers. "I sort of told James Rhodes about us today."

"… Holy shit."

"I know," _boy, do I know_ , "I didn't mean to, it was just—"

" _The_ James Rhodes?"

How many James Fucking Rhodes. "… Yeah?"

"No shit! Are you guys _friends_?"

There are lots of different kinds of friends. Maybe some kinds of friends carry each others' nasty-ass football gear across three practice fields twelve times a week. Maybe some kinds of friends toss each others' jock straps into the laundry twice a day.

… It's one of Bucky's _closest_ relationships, if nothing else.

"I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah, I mean, we talk on a daily basis," Bucky says. He makes a face to keep from smiling. "Wow, Rogers. I don't even talk to _you_ on a daily basis."

"Oh, come on—"

"What _are_ we, Steve."

For juuust a split second, Steve manages to keep a straight face, but he cracks before Bucky, which is the important thing.

"So you came out, is what you're saying," Steve says while he grins and sucks in a laugh.

"Well," Bucky says. When Steve came out, he did it in front of 30 cameras and 300 audience members and, you know, all 300 million citizens of the United Fucking States of America. "I guess."

"You _guess_?" Steve says. His face does that sort of sigh, the thing where his eyes go round and bright, and he looks at Bucky the same way he looked at that seven-year-old who asked him for his autograph the first time ever. "We're talking about James Rhodes. We're talking about the NFL. That's kind of a big deal, baby."

Bucky ducks his head a little. Looking at Steve when he's giving you a thousand watts of dork just isn't safe.

"Well," Bucky clears his throat, "When I play more than eight minutes in a game, get back to me about _big deals_."

"The real big deal here is that you have boring everyday conversations with James Rhodes."

"Well he's, you know, my _teammate_ and all."

" _Re_ ally?" Steve's face splits into that fake-ass magazine smile, the one designed and patented for talking shit. "What kind of team you play for?"

"Little football team in North Carolina."

"Is that the one where they kick the ball into the net?"

"Nah it's the one where I _sack you ten times_ in a couple weeks."

Steve flattens a hand to his chest and he tries to give Bucky some kind of how-dare-you-I'm-shocked look, but all his teeth are showing and the smile is so obvious. So obvious. So, so hard to not smile back.

"Hey, um." Bucky takes a deep breath and his lungs do this shaky thing like they know he's about to get real. His body is always giving up the game when Steve is involved. "Ten days."

Steve's face lights up. "Yeah! Ten days!"

Good fucking God, that smile. Zero to sixty. "So I was thinking," Bucky says, and has to clear his throat right away. "I was thinking—after we beat you, maybe me and you can get something to eat afterwards? I'd say a drink, but—"

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa," Steve says. His waves his hands so fast the image on the screen blurs and lags a little bit. "Whoa, what's this about you beating me?"

Bucky squints and pulls his lip between his teeth.

"Okay, sure," Steve says, not even trying to hide _his_ smile. "We'll be ready for you."

"I'll be ready for _you_." Aaand--then. Right then, there, the smile comes so real. He doesn't even stand a chance. Bucky smiles first but then Steve smiles of course and then they're stuck in a silent loop and Bucky pulls the collar of his shirt up to cover his mouth. "I'm ready."

Steve smiles even redder and shrugs. "Yeah. Me, too."

They're stuck again, looping, a hook and a chorus and static.

"It's getting late," Steve says. He runs a finger across the bottom of the screen. "I guess I can let you go."

Bucky thinks, _Yeah well that makes one of us._

Bucky says, "Yeah."

"I love you."

Say it back, say it back, just say it back it isn't hard you think it so much so loud every day—

"You're okay too, punk."

 

He's still thinking it—it's all he's ever thinking—even three hours later when the grass and the sky and the parking lot outside are all matching black.

The cat doesn't leave. It watches from the window sill while Bucky sweats through his Panther T-shirt and watches shadows dance over the playbook and forgets about them because they play Jacksonville next Sunday but the week after? That's when they go to Chicago.


	2. Week 4 - Carolina Panthers @ Chicago Bears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and his team travel to Chicago and play football and all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest thanks to [Ciela](http://lisa-in-the-sky.tumblr.com/) for betaing this chapter and by that i mean making sure it was good and not nonsense. Also thanks for talking to me about important matters late at night. May you never run over a squirrel while driving.

_**Punk ❤️  
** _ _So how's practice going_

 _**Bucky  
** _ _stop trying to get secrets out of me rogers_

 _**Punk ❤️  
** _ _That's not all I'm trying to get out of you_

 _**Bucky  
** _ _gross_

* * *

Bucky goes through the pictures on his phone on Tuesday between team meetings. A picture of Steve pops up, one from his birthday when they went to Rainbow Beach Park so they could see the Navy Pier fireworks without having to deal with Navy Pier. Half of Steve's face is covered in sand.

Steve had threatened to kiss Bucky that way and Bucky had spent the next five minutes dodging it until Sam tripped him and gave him a face-full of sand anyway.

It's a total reflex when Bucky smiles at the picture.

He thinks about making it his lock screen. His thumb hovers over the button for awhile and everything.

* * *

 _**Bucky  
** _ _what do cats eat_

 _**Punk ❤️** _  
_Mice_

 _**Punk ❤️** _  
_Birds_

 _**Punk ❤️** _  
_****milk_

 _**Bucky  
** _ _i mean real cats not fuckin cartoons_

 _**Punk ❤️** _  
_Lasagna_

 _**Bucky  
** _ _thanks for ur input_

* * *

Sam sends Bucky a string of Snapchats on Thursday. They're all of Steve and if you flip through them fast enough it like a video of him falling on his ass laughing. According to Sam, "he got drunk and wouldn't shut up about his boyfriend in the NFL."

Bucky didn't even know Steve was drinking tonight, or how he and Sam ended up in the same city.

They really need to have that _talk_ , don't they?

But this must be a good thing with all the stuff about boyfriends?

Sam texts him something along the lines of "the freshmen keep asking who his NFL bf is" and Bucky hugs one of the couch pillows and Sam's next text comes in fast: "I gave em a second round and told em it was tom Brady"

* * *

 _**Punk ❤️** _  
_I can't sleep_

 _**Bucky  
** _ _i know_

 _**Punk ❤️  
** _ _I can't wait to see you tomorrow_

 _**Bucky  
** _ _i know :)_

* * *

Steve is a great quarterback, no question, but the thing is, if you can get a good look at him through the freaking steel-reinforced wall of linemen, he's got this incredible tell where he drops his right hip whenever he's about to throw across his body. Actually, most people might not catch on. It's really subtle and Bucky's not about to tell anyone. And it's only useful when he subs for the strong safety or in other words almost never, since he's more Mike-backer-sized, plus it's not his primary job since he's always got James Rhodes covering his ass.

"Second and ten," Rhodes announces to the huddle.

Bucky's coach calls in the coverage, and Bucky has to relay the coverage to his teammates, this wall of fucking NFL players waiting for him to speak up. Like actually listening to him. The familiar little Doppler effect of adrenaline waxes and wanes in his stomach, and then the dust settles, and,

"Strong Tiger 2, Cover 2. Got it?"

" _Break_ ," the Panthers defense answers in unison.

File under: _Things Bucky Will Never Get Used To_.

So anyway, back to Steve Rogers' hips.

Bucky's angled toward the strong side listening to Steve shout some garbage diversionary bullshit as always (" _One right wing, Brooklyn-24, Brooklyn-24_ ," honestly what a nerd), and Bucky's attention is all on the tight end who's probably gonna throw a block and then come out for a late option when Steve finally hikes the ball.

Bucky exhales through the balls of his feet. Dances into the vertical seam. Sure enough, the tight end is there, but also the iron curtain of linemen parts in just the right spot, and Bucky gets a good full-body look at Steve Rogers, and he sees him drop that right hip.

Fuck you, Steve Rogers, you fucking sonofabitch fox.

Bucky pretty much breaks an ankle twisting back to the weak side. Seriously, fuck you Steve, and not in the good way. Navy jerseys. White jerseys. Bucky follows the angle of those hips. He glances at Steve's eyes, too, and sure enough, he's got Devin Hester spotlighted near the sideline.

The Chicago crowd wails.

Bucky ignores them. He knows what Steve is thinking, and he gets there first.

Not soon enough for the interception—but the ball hits his fingers like a baseball bat. (That's a stupid analogy.)

"What's up Barnes!" Rhodes floats into his vision as the ball bounces out of bounds. "What's up! _That's_ what's up!"

He's freaking out, like there's a lot of exclamation points implied. Bucky grins and another linebacker pounds his shoulders. It kind of twinges but not in a bad way, more in a way that will make a trainer lecture him later but right now it's nice because his teammates are dancing in circles like,

"That was sick!"

"That was a real _play_ , bro!"

and more exclamation points and all.

Bucky kind of wishes he could catch Steve's eye just to fuck with him, but he's got another play to call in.

"Third and ten," Rhodes barks.

"Tight Tiger 2, Cover 2," Bucky adds. "Got it?"

" _Break_."

This time Steve sails one over Bucky's head while he's hounding a tight end. This time Rhodes gets a hand on the ball and even though he doesn't intercept it either, he kills the drive.

Does the _job_.

The Panther offense takes the field. Bucky and T'Challa brush past each other with a lazy half-high-five-half-handshake and not a word. He's not sure if they're cool or just on the same team, literally and figuratively.

As soon as he's off the field, Bucky tries to find that one trainer who does the quick massage thing—not the deep tissue kind for after games, just the kind that keeps his arm from short circuiting and burning off.

At halftime, he gets a shot for the pain. The doctor doesn't say anything and Bucky avoids eye contact.

* * *

The second half doesn't go as good as the first.

The Panthers kind of trip up on every front, like when T'Challa throws a pick into a tough Bears defense and then Steve capitalizes on the momentum with a 52-yard drive to score. Then after a Panther three-and-out Steve embarrasses them again, and the Bears take the lead.

The real tough part is that Bucky has to watch it all from the sidelines.

Being a back-up fucking sucks.

_We want you on our team because we saw footage of you playing American State and annihilating people. Oh look, we're playing the very same QB you've been known to annihilate, perfect time to sit you on the bench._

God, it gets so bad, Bucky just has to remind himself—tonight won't suck. Tonight's gonna be worth it.

Every time Steve gets a hold of the football, the crowd rages and _Another Panther Disaster!_ comes that much closer to the headlines.

"It's coming together," Bucky offers when James Rhodes trudges off the field, panting like he's more pissed than tired.

"It's a bloodbath," Rhodes says darkly.

"It's S—it's Rogers," Bucky says. "He reads defenses really well, you have to sit on your heels until the last second."

James Rhodes shoots him a _the-fuck-you-talkin-to-child_ look.

"I just," Bucky croaks, "we played him twice last year."

"I know how to read a quarterback."

"Brooklyn is the hot word," Bucky says desperately.

Rhodes stops and narrows his eyes.

"One of the hot words," Bucky amends.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Heads up for a change when he calls Brooklyn."

It works for awhile. The Bears don't score again until the fourth quarter. They _do_ score though, inevitably, or to be more accurate _Steve_ scores again, emphatically. This time, when Rhodes comes off the field, _he_ comes looking for _Bucky_ , not the other way around.

"That all you got, Barnes?"

"The sidelines."

"What about them."

"Rogers guns down sidelines. If he's got anyone open on an out-route, you're done for."

Bucky feels a little guilty for giving up Steve's secrets but the thing is they're _not_ secrets, they're _tendencies_ , anyone could pick up on them if they just watched really close. Maybe Bucky watches Steve Rogers closer than most people. But the point stands.

"Thanks, Barnes."

When Rhodes turns to leave, Bucky grabs his elbow (and kind of feels his stomach swoop with fear and immediately lets go). "Sorry, it just—it's—tell Collins not to fall back so deep in the Tampa 2."

Rhodes cocks his head and Bucky is really painfully aware of those eyes raking him up and down. "He has to fall back, that's the point of the Tampa 2. He's running the play."

"Fuck the _play_ , it doesn't work with that many receivers—"

"Barnes," Rhodes cuts him off. "Now's not the time."

And he jams on his helmet and sprints onto the field.

And he's clearly mad.

And Bucky has to watch with the other fucking back-ups while Steve throws one last touchdown, the nail in their coffin.

Bucky feels gross with losing, the kind of queasy that doesn't stick to one spot, it's like sickness spreading from your stomach to your sternum and the hollow of your neck and your head. It's the worst fucking thing, and it's way worse when there's nothing you can goddamn do about it. Being a back-up fucking sucks, being sick fucking sucks, being hurt fucking sucks. Losing fucking sucks.

It's harder to say _tonight's gonna be worth it_ after losing, but at least he'll _have_ tonight.

The Bears crowd is something else. They are big and loud and super fucking committed, which makes it overwhelming.

The teams spill off the sidelines into an ugly navy-and-orange-and-turquoise mix. The coaches shake hands, and the important players make a point to congratulate each other, mostly for the media's sake.

Lots of the players have friends on the opposing team, so they gotta say hi and shake hands because they won't see each other again until the off-season or maybe even this time next year, depending. Bucky's not sure if he fits that category. He notices their running back, Williams, catching up with a Bears wide receiver and feels like he's watching a movie. Sitting in the back row.

Steve has important people to shake hands with first, and Bucky kills time by hugging a few Chicago defenders.

"That was a nice play in the second quarter, Barnes," one of them says.

Bucky just nods and tries to blink the stars out of his eyes.

"Almost picked him off," the Bears linebacker adds, before turning to find James Rhodes.

Bucky blinks again and he turns around and Steve's arms are around him.

It's like taking the whole Chicago crowd, noise and all, and packing them inside Bucky's chest.

"Hey, Buck."

"You _suck_ , you know that?" is what bursts out.

Steve laughs and says he's sorry. The hug is a little awkward, at least by their standards, because they've each got eight layers of pads and clothing which makes it even harder to get an arm around anyone's shoulders but honestly it's still so good. Suddenly like helium replacing all of Bucky's organs one at a time. He doesn't want to leave.

Bucky tucks his nose against Steve's ear. "That was something else, you know?" he says without raising his voice, and he presses a light kiss to the hinge of Steve's jaw like it could just be another part of the sentence. "You gonna throw four touchdowns every week or was that just for me?"

Steve pulls back enough to look at Bucky and his face is _red_ , holy shit, so red a doctor would be concerned, so red he clashes with his stupid uniform, so red Bucky feels the same color in his eyes.

For a second, Steve doesn't say anything, and his hands just linger on Bucky's shoulder and his waist. "Hey, so … hey." His face gives it away; besides the fact that he's redder than howling sirens, his face kind of folds in around the edges. Bucky knows that look. He looks the way he looked when Bucky punched him. "I got some bad news, Buck."

 _I know, I know already, don't tell me, just hug me again_ —

"About tonight."

"What's up Steve."

"My O-line decided they want their Rookie Dinner tonight."

Bucky blinks. His chest feels weird, like someone is prying open his ribs, like when you undo the little metal prongs to remove a staple by hand.

"I have to take them out," Steve continues. "I'm sorry. They decided this morning."

"Rookie Dinner?"

"Yeah," Steve shakes his head, half-fond, half-exasperated. "Yeah, the rookies always take their units out for a huge expensive dinner. I don't have a 'unit' though, you know? I mean, there's only one other quarterback, and I'm the starter … somehow."

"Somehow." _Who the fuck do you think—_

"Anyway. I have to buy dinner for my O-Line."

Bucky pats him on the chest. "Okay."

"It's _not_ okay. I'm sorry. I asked if we could do it another time, but they _insisted_ —they said 'no, if we win tonight, we're going out,' and I just—"

"Shut up, Steve," Bucky cuts him off because honestly? Did he really try to reschedule a goddamn NFL tradition with some of his most experienced (and talented) (and rich) teammates? Fucking Steve Rogers. "It's fine, really."

Steve looks like he just confessed to a violent felony. Bucky takes one look at him and the bright pink flushing his cheeks—his _eyes_ —and hooks an arm around his neck to hug him again. "It's fine, Steve."

"I'm so sorry, baby."

"Hey, fuck, man, we'll do something after."

"Yeah, yeah—I'll call you when I'm done," Steve says. "I promise."

"Yeah."

Steve pulls away again and gives him a curly little smile. His eyes flicker to Bucky's chest and back. "You look good," he says, because he is the least subtle motherfucker on the planet.

"You're just horny," Bucky mutters.

"No," Steve says, and the corners of his mouth tighten. "Well, _yes_ , but—that's not—"

"You look good, too."

"Thanks."

Bucky licks his teeth.

The stadium is starting to empty; the players and coaches are starting to trickle off the field.

"Buck, how did it feel? Really?"

Bucky sucks in some cold air. "It hurt," he says truthfully, because Steve won't let him lie about it anymore, even though it's _not a big deal_.

"How many shots did you need?"

"Two," Bucky says, mostly teeth and tongue and he doesn't really want Steve to hear it. Most of the Carolina Panthers are disappearing through their tunnel.

There's a weird, strained, clicking sensation in Bucky's throat.

Steve hugs him again. "I'll call you, Buck."

 

He doesn't.

Call, that is.

Even after an hour and a half of debriefing and sidestepping media and showering and getting back to the hotel. After Rhodes gives Bucky a smart little wink and says _good game_ and a more serious _thanks_ and then asks, "You gonna see your man tonight?"

Bucky says maybe. Maybe.

"What, you're on his time?" Rhodes frowns. "It's not like you come to Chicago every day, kid."

"… I don't mind waiting for him."

Rhodes narrows his eyes again, like he did on the sideline when Bucky mentioned Steve's play counts. "Okay," Rhodes says. "Whatever you do, though, do it for you."

"Okay."

He's not sure what that means. He just misses Steve. His chest is still unstapling.

Then another hour passes.

Back in the hotel room, Bucky changes out of his button-down into old shredded sweats and flicks through Facebook, which is boring because he only started the thing a couple months ago and it's super hush-hush so he's got about thirty-two friends. He glances over at his roommate, a rookie out of Utah with two kids. They're Skyping now. He's got the headphones on and he's not loud or anything which is polite, but it's not like it's a secret.

 _What's the point, what's the upside here_ , Bucky thinks, because even if Steve wasn't at dinner with his linemen, they—wouldn't. They _couldn't_. Not with a teammate in the room.

Another hour passes. Bucky stares through SportsCenter without actually seeing much. Isaiah and Pietro both scored touchdowns this afternoon, but Bucky doesn't even register which teams they played.

 _**Bucky  
** _ _my roommates going to bed but u can text me_

The _talk_ , Bucky thinks, _am I missing something?_

He wants to bury his face in a pillow and scream, but instead he presses his back against the headboard and tries to ignore his own breathing which is a joke, he can't ignore it, it's a cold scrape against the back of his throat.

By one-thirty in the morning, Bucky starts to doze on top of the covers. His roommate has been snoring for awhile now. Bucky doesn't even realize he's asleep until he wakes up again at seven and checks his phone. He's got a text from over four hours ago.

 _**Punk ❤️  
** _ _I'm so sorry Bucky I'm sorry it's so late are you still up?_

Bucky swallows hard and rolls onto his back. His right shoulder aches because he fell asleep on it. His left shoulder aches because it always aches.

 _**Bucky  
** _ _It's ok_

Steve's response is immediate.

_OMG BUCKY I'm so so so sorry I can't believe I ditched you please tell me we can get breakfast or something_

_**Bucky  
** _ _Our plane leaves at 9:30_

 _**Punk ❤️  
** _ _I'm sorry I don't even know what to say I'm such a fuck up_

 _**Bucky  
** _ _were u really out with the guys til 2?_

 _**Punk ❤️  
** _ _Yes god they wouldn't shut up or stop eating or stop DRINKING_

 _**Bucky  
** _ _lol it's fine realy i'll see you some other time_

 _**Punk ❤️  
** _ _I love you_

Bucky looks at his phone for a second, then flips it over so the screen is face-down and gets up to go to the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: my brother has his fiancee saved in his phone as Punk ❤️ AND ALSO, my brother is a professional athlete. so you know. real-life inspiration and that. is it dorky? yes. is it unrealistically dorky? no such thing. people are dorks.


	3. Week 7 - Washington Redskins @ Carolina Panthers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's okay for you to speak your mind. Just make sure you do it at the right time."

"I still think your best option is surgery."

"I don't want surgery," Bucky says for the eight-millionth time.

The Panther trainer sighs heavily. Like, _pointedly_. Her mouth is a thin straight line of disapproval. "Take your shirt off." She gives the order like it physically pains her to change the subject.

Bucky's tempted to roll his eyes. He understands where she's coming from, because yeah, this is her job, and yeah, she knows what she's talking about. But this is _his body_. Other people spent the last five years breaking it, Bucky should at least be allowed to fix it how he wants.

Which involves no goddamn fucking _anesthesia,_ thank you very much.

He takes off his shirt. _Without_ rolling his eyes, because the poor trainer wants what's best for him, after all.

"Your shoulder's tighter than normal," she says, pressing a thumb along the crease where the big muscles fold together.

It makes Bucky's knees shiver. "Yeah, week seven, you know."

"Eventually you'll have to figure out a way to deal with the longer season, Barnes."

He ignores her. Movement in the door catches his eye, and T'Challa comes in with a trainer on his heels. He sits two chairs away from Bucky and doesn't speak to him and generally seems to either hate Bucky or think he's just another useless rookie back-up so their relationship is _totally thriving_ , obviously.

They don't make eye contact. They each fix their undivided attention on the TV mounted in the corner, which is muted, but the closed captions are rolling so Bucky and T'Challa can read what the SportsCenter folks have to say about their game last week.

"Does that hurt?" Bucky's trainer asks.

"Not really," he says.

The TV shows highlights of T'Challa throwing back-to-back touchdown passes. The closed captions keep them updated.

"… _a lot of promise for a first-year starter …"_

Then it cuts to Bucky's big moment. He cringes because he kind of wants to _forget_ that moment from the third quarter when he flattened the Falcons running back for a loss. Knocked the wind out of him, made him miss the next couple plays. Bucky remembers because he felt like shit for hurting the guy but—well, he wasn't exactly hurt.

"… _missed practice on Monday to rest his ribs …"_

Turns out NFL players can take hits better than teenagers.

The trainer presses a thumb into the outside of Bucky's shoulder. "Does it hurt now?"

His shoulder kind of twinges, like there's a wasp buried deep in the muscle and tissue and it wants out. "It's not bad. A little." His eye twitches.

Footage of Brock Rumlow's ugly face winks on the screen.

Bucky frowns and follows the closed captions.

"… _spoke to former Southeast State Defensive assistant, Brock Rumlow, who worked closely with Barnes for several years during his college years."_

Rumlow's sneery mouth starts running, and the captions take a few seconds to catch up.

" _No, it doesn't surprise me at all. The Falcons are lucky it wasn't worse."_

" _Lucky that Barnes didn't injure him, you mean?"_ the reporter asks.

Rumlow does his special little skeleton smile. _"Barnes is an animal. I wouldn't want him here at Philadelphia."_ He looks over his shoulder, then turns back to the camera, eyebrows raised _. "Actually, we got Vick here, you know? Maybe we could get Mike Vick to train him right."_ He laughs at his own joke.

" _You think Barnes' style of play is inappropriate?"_

" _Everything about him is inappropriate. That's not even close to what he gets into on his own time. Man, I'd keep your daughters away from him. And your sons, too, if you know what I mean."_

"Does that hurt?" the trainer asks, lifting Bucky's arm to a ninety-degree angle.

"Yeah—" he says automatically, and sucks in a breath. His arm isn't that bad, actually, when he thinks about it, it's more uncomfortable than anything. Like hot wax pouring through the veins in his arm. "It's fine," he amends. "I just need ice."

He turns to face T'Challa, who looks at Bucky, but doesn't show any emotion except the muscle twitching in his jaw.

* * *

_**Punk ❤️** _   
_So here's the plan_

_**Punk ❤️  
** _ _I'm in London on Sunday right_

_**Punk ❤️  
** _ _We fly back on Monday, land at noon or something. I'll sleep for like a day, and then drive to you?_

_**Bucky  
** _ _what's up_

_**Bucky  
** _ _YWS GOOD PLAN_

_**Punk ❤️  
** _ _I'll prob have to rent a car_

_**Punk ❤️  
** _ _YES haha I'll do it. I'll see you next Tuesday_

_**Bucky  
** _ _so less than a week_

_**Punk ❤️  
** _ _You sure u can wait that long_

_**Bucky  
** _ _i can wait that long_

* * *

The Charlotte Observer publishes an article about the NFL game in London this week. The Chicago Bears are playing the Tampa Bay Buccaneers at Wembley Stadium on Sunday night. At least, it will be Sunday night in London.

Maybe.

Bucky's not actually super clear on the time zone thing.

He cuts out the article and the picture of Steve that goes with it. Hangs it on his fridge next to the old article from high school, and an article from Steve's first game, and the article from the game Bucky played in Chicago in week 4. (That last one isn't just an article. It's the whole front page of the sports section. Bucky picked it up off a news rack while they were waiting for their flight out of O'Hare. He was all secretive about it though, since it's a full-color full-page splash of Steve Rogers and BEARS MAUL PANTHERS in all caps.)

Anyway, while Bucky is cutting Steve's article out of the local paper, he notices another story on the next page that makes him freeze solid.

It has a black-and-white photo, but you can still recognize all the Panther jerseys. People outside some government building with picket signs and Carolina Panther jerseys. T'Challa's number is there. And James Rhodes. And Bucky's 34.

Their signs aren't creative or anything, but they make static go off in Bucky's throat.

 _Ban Gay Marriage, Leviticus 18:22, Keep Marriage Sacred_ , etc. etc., bullshit bullshit bullshit.

* * *

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _Heyyy so I saw rumlow bein a dick as always, don't take it too serious big bucks_

_**Bucky  
** _ _i'm not but the fuckin confederate media sure is havin a field day_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _What are they saying?_

_**Bucky  
** _ _like shit about how keep homos out of sports and shit_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _U ok?_

_**Bucky  
** _ _ya_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _Ok good also remember when the falcons fuckin recked u last week_

_**Bucky  
** _ _thanks wilson_

* * *

The season doesn't do much. It's like when you gun the engine in neutral. It's like getting a song stuck in your head, but only one short part over and over that you don't know the words to.

That's the Carolina Panther season. It's just out of reach.

They've won one game so far.

It makes Bucky antsy. If Southeast lost a single game, it was the end of the world. That's how it is in college—cutthroat black-and-white win-or-die weekly warzones. Everything is based on your end-of-season record, and there's just too many too-good teams scattered all over the country, no one can afford to lose if they want that trophy. The NFL, on the other hand, has play-offs and divisions and shit, so as long as you do decent in your division and keep your head above water, you can make the play-offs and start fresh.

In other words the NFL is fucking cake.

… Well.

That's not a fair comparison, but Bucky's feeling _wistful_ and shit after their mildly catastrophic loss to the Falcons, plus Sam has been gloating the past three days.

The point is, practice becomes less and less fun as the season drags on. Feels like Bucky's bones are grinding down at the joints.

"Barnes!" More squawking. "Where the hell are you running?!"

"Through the vertical seam, sir."

"Is this a 'do what I say not what I do' situation, Barnes?"

Bucky closes his eyes. "No, sir."

"Then drop back into goddamn coverage like you're supposed to!"

"Yes, sir." _I'll just cover the entire middle of the field all on my own, no sweat._

After the live scenarios, Bucky finds Rhodes and waits for orders. That is, waits for Rhodes to hand off all his nasty gear for Bucky to carry.

"How do you feel?" Rhodes asks as he pulls off his gloves one finger at a time.

Bucky blinks. "You want me to get anything for you?"

Rhodes looks at him slowly and raises an eyebrow. "You're not gonna answer?"

"Um." Answer what? Just let him take care of the damn rookie laundry run for shit's sake.

"How do you feel?" Rhodes asks, enunciating totally clear like a robot.

A football robot. That would explain all the interceptions.

"Barnes?"

"Sorry," Bucky says really quick without thinking about why. "Sorry, I'm—you—I feel fine."

Rhodes doesn't lower his eyebrow. He peels off his practice jersey and throws it over his shoulder, and then he velcros his gloves together through a loop in his pads.

"So," Rhodes says, in a voice like Sit Down Son I'm Gonna Have A Word With You, and he starts walking. "Dropping into coverage. What's not making sense for you?"

 _Sense_ , that's not the fucking issue, the playbook makes perfect fucking _sense,_ but then when you're actually facing T'Challa and Williams and a battalion of wideouts, it all kind of goes out the window. No more _sense_ to talk about. It's kind of every-man-for-himself (not to be confused with man-to-man) (fuck) and Bucky has to make decisions and those X's and O's in his playbook start to fuzz out in his head, like the fucked-up part of an old VHS.

"I don't know."

"Listen, Barnes," Rhodes gives him the serious face. "You're good. You have great vision and quick footwork. You have way too much talent to still forget basic coverages. What's not making sense to you?"

Bucky takes a deep breath. Forget basic coverages. Yeah, that's just one thing Bucky forgets, these days. "Well," he tries, "I study and everything."

"So why do you get confused?" he asks, like he actually wants to know, like he's trying to force Bucky into some kind of humiliating confession, _forgive me father for I have not learned the defensive formations_ and shit.

Their cleats roar with that sub-machine gun rattle on the sidewalk back to the facility. For awhile, that's the only sound in Bucky's head. As if it didn't ache enough already. "I mean, I _study_ , but it just doesn't translate when the offense is coming at me, you know?"

"Yeah," Rhodes says slowly. "Yeah, I know."

"I feel like it would be easier if I could make things up as I go."

"Like what?"

"I don't—I don't know. I can't explain it. I just do it."

Rhodes slows to a stop, and Bucky isn't sure whether to stay with him or keep going, so he just kind of hovers. "Okay. So let's do it."

"What."

"We got a break before the next film session." Rhodes shrugs.

That's how they end up back on the practice field, just Bucky and James Rhodes, lining up against an invisible offense with a playbook open flat on the grass. They'll pick a formation, pick a coverage, and then _do_ it, actually walk through it live. Together, they match up how it looks vs. how it feels.

Sometimes Rhodes runs a route in Bucky's face, like the receivers will, and sometimes he fills in a defensive position so Bucky can get a feel for the relationships. He shouts out the plays beforehand. After a few reps, the muscle memory starts to replace the meaningless pictures in Bucky's head.

"Yeah— _yeah_ , Barnes, that's more _like_ it!" Rhodes shouts after Bucky cuts off his route for the fifth time in a row.

"Okay," Bucky says.

"You feel better?"

"I feel better." He almost smiles, even.

"So you're gonna be a thousand times better next time we do this in full pads?"

Bucky does smile at that. "Yeah, maybe."

"And if you need help, just _ask_ ," Rhodes says, and snaps the playbook shut for emphasis.

 _Just ask_ , he says, like no one will make fun of him for it.

"The thing is—um." Bucky almost stops half-way through but now Rhodes is giving him an expectant look. Shit. "The Tampa 2 is so _outdated_. You'll never stop the big spread offenses with quarterbacks like Aaron Rodgers and Tom Brady and—Chicago."

"This is why Stark doesn't want to work with kids anymore," Rhodes says. He shakes his head, but he's smiling, so maybe Bucky didn't just lose his job, hopefully. "They think they're so smart."

Bucky blinks. His mind goes back to college. "Are you talking about … Tony Stark?"

"The very same."

"You know Tony _Stark_?"

To say that Rhodes "bursts into laughter" would be an understatement. The man loses his shit, like stop-dead hands-on-his-knees cackling. Bucky's immediate thought is _oh shit I broke our starting free safety_. Maybe he's about to get fired after all for being the biggest mouthiest little shit to ever open his dumbass mouth.

Rhodes laughs some more.

Bucky clears his throat. "Is that a yes."

"' _Do I know Tony Stark_.'"

"Okay, okay, I get it." Bucky starts to smile, too.

"Yes," Rhodes gasps, wiping the tears from his eyes. " _Yes_ , I know Tony Stark." He doesn't offer any other explanation.

"He doesn't want to work with kids anymore?" Bucky asks.

Rhodes gathers himself, and they head back to the facilities.

"He's talking about coming to the NFL." Rhodes tucks the playbook under one arm, and then his eyes go wide. "Oh, shit—I'm not supposed to say anything, shit."

"He's ditching American State?!"

"It's just a rumor."

Okay, but that's the kind of rumor that would make the top headline on ESPN and every other sports media outlet known to man, holy fuck.

"As for the defense," Rhodes says, a little more serious, eyes on the Panther logo on the looming buildings. "We run what the coach says we run."

"Yeah, I got it."

"But listen." Rhodes clears his throat. "It's okay for you to speak your mind. Just make sure you do it at the right time."

"… Okay." Bucky sighs.

"I promise. I'll talk any time."

Bucky doesn't speak for a minute or so, just kind of washes that idea over in his head. Speaking his mind. Talking to James Rhodes about—anything.

Before they reach the training buildings, Bucky speaks up again. "Okay, it would just be easier if we just set up a different _coverage_ , that's all. We're so old-fashioned."

Rhodes laughs."Now you really sound like Tony. ' _Beat the spread, beat the spread_.' He's probably gonna go to the NFL and invent a whole new defense."

* * *

_**Bucky  
** _ _Does stark ever talk about James Rhodes_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _idk man I play offense I never talk t no DC_

_**Bucky  
** _ _is it true Stark is leaving_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _U know I can't give away something like that!_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _Don't tell any one_

_**Bucky  
** _ _who am I gonna tell_

_**Sam Wilson** _ **  
** _steven rogers cannot keep his mouth shut._

**_Bucky_ **   
_true holy shit_

* * *

A tropical storm slams the southeast U.S. during the second half of the week. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday it thunderstorms non-stop.

Hurricane season is a totally alien planet to Bucky, with winds and downpours and puddles turning into lakes in all the dips in the road. In Brooklyn this would be snow, if anything, if they even get that much snow at one time, and in West Texas this would be the end of the fucking world.

(Ice texts him to ask how he's doing, which is honestly the sweetest thing ever since Ice A) never sends texts and B) never talks about hurricanes, not that Bucky blames him after leaving his family behind in Katrina, but anyway. It was nice, is the point.)

The cat comes to visit more often, looking wetter and scragglier every time Bucky sees it.

On Thursday, she's sitting outside his window when he gets home from practice. Her mouth opens and closes because she's probably yowling to be let in, but Bucky can't hear her over the pounding rain. When he opens the window, she walks in like she owns the place.

On Friday, he leaves the window open for her and pays for it with a damp spot next to the end table. The cat shows up just when he's thinking about shutting the rain out. She slinks in with this weird-looking fast-walk like her feet barely even leave the ground.

"You know, I really shouldn't keep my window open in this weather," he says, wiping a puddle off of the sill.

She blinks at him and shakes water onto his carpet.

He slides the window pane down until there's a six-inch gap for the cat to squeeze through when it wants to leave. "Happy?" he asks, reaching out a hand. The cat immediately backs away from him. Bucky sighs. "That's what I thought."

She still won't let him pet her.

On Saturday, Bucky rumbles home and kills his engine and silently mourns the poor Corvette's wax job and kind of considers spending the night in the car just so he doesn't have to face the fucking monsoon—but then he notices the cat underneath a bench by his front door.

So he braves the storm.

Even though it's raining sideways.

It's really slippery and clumsy but he finally gets his front door open and sticks one foot through and then looks back at the cat. Her eyes are fucking huge, and she's fucking frozen in place.

"… Here kitty," he tries.

She stares at him.

How the fuck do you make a cat do what you want.

Bucky crouches down near his door and makes sure to leave the entrance wide open in case she wants to sprint past him into the warm dry bright inside, which is what _Bucky_ wants to do, for god's sake. But the cat keeps staring at him. She looks like she's shaking, but that might be an illusion of the sheets of rain.

He holds out a hand and kind of … beckons the cat. Do cats understand hand motions? "Come on, kitty."

She stretches her neck and her nose does the twitchy sniffy thing, and her whiskers move up and down. But she doesn't budge.

"Okay, fuck it." Bucky slips through the front door with a heavy sigh. He did not fucking get yelled at by like nine-thousand different coaches today just to come home and get ignored by a cat.

He goes to the fridge and pulls out the package of Oscar Mayer roast beef.

The rain isn't just wet and cold and miserable, it's also loud as balls, which is bullshit because Bucky wants to talk to the cat more but he has to scream to be heard. Screaming would for sure scare her off.

So he pulls up his hood, props the front door open with a pair of old Adidas, and starts tearing up pieces of roast beef.

That gets the cat's attention.

Her nose goes haywire again.

"Come on kitty," he says, tossing bits of roast beef in a little line.

" _Hey!_ " a voice cracks over the storm and Bucky drops a whole piece of lunchmeat with a _splat_. The cat is instantly all tense-whiskers, arched-back.

"Hey, what are you doing to my cat?!"

His heart is literally racing, what the fuck, when Bucky looks up and tries to see who's yelling through the curtains of rain. A tall figure morphs from a shimmery blob to an angry stranger into—

" _T'Challa?_ "

"Are you trying to steal my cat?!"

" _What?_ "

"Leave my cat alone!"

T'Challa cuts a soggy path right across the lawn, and water and mud flies everywhere around his feet, and Bucky can't even make himself stand up, he's so stunned.

"I'm not trying to steal her."

"What's all this?" T'Challa waves an arm at Bucky's little roast-beef trail that only made it half-way to the front door. Then he strides right over to the little bench and grabs the cat and pulls her to his chest. She clings to him and headbutts his chin like she's done it a million times.

A totally weird and definitely stupid pang of jealousy cuts through Bucky's gut and he's like, _fuck, that cat never even let me_ touch _her, and now you're just coming out of nowhere like—what. Like what_. He surges to his feet. "I'm not trying to steal nothing, I just didn't want her to _drown!_ " Bucky shouts.

"Sure," T'Challa gives him a hesitant look. And he takes a couple steps away, but Bucky's had enough. Enough of coaches yelling, enough of thunderstorms, enough of hoity-toity cats and hoity-toity quarterbacks.

"I didn't want her out in the rain, okay?!" he barks.

T'Challa stops and looks at him.

"I'm not a fucking cat thief," Bucky snarls. "She fucking shows up at my door all soaked every day, I'm not gonna _leave_ her out here. Like you apparently do."

T'Challa doesn't move and doesn't say anything for a long time. A really, thunderously long time. Literally. He just kind of lets the lightning and thunder speak for him while he gazes at Bucky. He doesn't look mad.

Then he leaves without a word.

The rest of the night is an endless series of thunderclaps. Bucky spends it trying to get dry and trying to eat something without getting sick and trying to remember the plays the way Rhodes helped him.

What he _wants_ is to talk to Steve. The time zone thing confuses him a little—he can never remember how many hours apart they are—but Steve is ahead, he knows that. Which means it's the middle of the damn night in London so—yeah, that fucks up their FaceTime schedule fucking _royally_.

Fucks up everything to be honest.

The next day and a half is gonna be bullshit. Trying to line up gameday schedules and intercontinental time zones plus the fact that Steve doesn't have a British data plan so he'll only even have a chance to text when he finds free internet.

Well, he's rich. He could pay for internet.

The point is, they won't be able to talk anyway. They never talk on gameday. Gamedays are fucking black holes.

He pulls up Facebook, where Steve has posted a picture of himself in London with a beautiful girl Bucky doesn't recognize at first, but then when he reads the caption it straight-up elbows him in the solar plexus and he can't breathe for a second because he forgot all about Peggy Carter until this literal second.

* * *

_**Bucky  
** _ _what do cats eat_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _THEY EAT UR ASS FOR BREAKFAST_

_**Bucky  
** _ _do u have a helpful answer_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _cat food_

_**Bucky  
** _ _Bye_

* * *

The media corners Bucky when he gets to Bank of America Stadium in the morning.

 _One_ reporter, actually, one courageous reporter, one fucking fool with a little ESPN logo on his name badge. His name badge also says "Steve Porter" and it also gives him access to lots of Carolina Panther property and he chose the parking lot of all places. And Bucky's inspecting a spot of bird shit on the Corvette and thinking about how much birds suck when this Courageous Son of a Bitch Fool Reporter sneaks up behind him.

So Bucky is trapped between Steve and the Corvette.

It's very close to a recurring dream of his.

"Mr. Barnes!"

Which is already a bad sign because Bucky is a rookie 6th-round-draft-pick and reporters only know his name if they're from Wisconsin or if they've got some _gross_ shit in mind.

"Mr. Barnes, I'm so happy I found you here!"

"Yeah," Bucky says. "In the Panthers parking lot. On game day."

"I just feel as if the media talks about you a lot, and they never talk _to_ you. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"The Carolina fans would simply love to hear from a fan favorite."

Is that a joke.

"Okay."

The reporter waves his iPhone a little bit. Bucky can't tell if he's supposed to speak up for the mic or what. "So, Mr. Barnes. What do you think about the game today?"

"Washington?" Bucky clarifies.

"Yeah, the game against Washington."

Bucky cracks his jaw and runs a hand along one of his rear-view mirrors. "It'll be good."

The reporter smiles like fucking piano keys. "I'm sure. Another question for you, Mr. Barnes. North Carolina has just been going wild after some statements Brock Rumlow made last week."

You know how when you crumple paper it kind of fights back, and morphs into weird shapes and makes a satisfying crunchy noise and everything? But when you crumple tin foil, it's just ruined. Doesn't fight back at all, it just collapses into a dense little mortar shell, and the sound. Is screaming. It screams.

Bucky's stomach crumples like tin foil. "Rumlow?"

"Yes," Reporter Steve Porter shows even more teeth. "He seemed to suggest you're violent on the football field."

"I do my job."

The reporter nods knowingly and somehow keeps perfect, lethal eye contact. "He also made other suggestions. He implied that you might be gay."

He pauses, and he stares at Bucky for an awkwardly long time. If he thinks that bullshit gets Bucky to talk faster he can just keep fucking staring.

"If what Rumlow said is true," the reporter says, "that would make you the first openly gay player in the NFL."

"Right."

"Is it true?"

"You reporting rumors, now."

"I'm here for facts, Mr. Barnes."

"Well, I can tell you facts about football games. I don't mess around with other drama."

"Drama like the picketers in Panther jerseys down by the capitol this week?"

Static in Bucky's throat. Tin foil. Mortar shells. His teeth ache, he grinds them together so hard, god he's about to _taste_ them.

"What do you think about Panther fans calling to ban gay marriage, Mr. Barnes?"

Mortar shells.

"I think it's messed up." _This is why I don't talk_. There was a song stuck in his head and now it's just a deep, stabbing bass line. "That's not what the Panthers organization is about."

"What do you mean? What aren't they about?"

" _Hate_. We don't …" Black, blue, throbbing sub woofers. "Those people putting on Panther jerseys and shouting about keeping marriage … pure or whatever? That's not what we're about. We believe in equality and diversity. You know. We're here for the young people in this state getting bullied and harassed for no good reason. Kids … hurting themselves because they're confused. And ashamed." _This is why I don't talk, this is why_ , "We care about the young athletes out there who are so used to being hated—they're afraid to talk about themselves, afraid to talk about who they love, so they just … _stop talking_."

The reporter wavers. Bucky presses his tailbone into the side of his car and thinks about thunderstorms. _This is why,_

"It's messed up." Bucky forces the words out. He bites the inside of his cheek to get some moisture in his mouth. "And I'm lucky, because the Panther organization has been there for me since day one. But those—those people picketing their hateful b—stuff."

"Do you disagree with those fans?"

"Those people aren't _fans_. They don't know anything about the Panthers."

"Why's that?"

"Because they think it's okay for me to give a player a concussion, but it's not okay for me to marry my boyfriend." His own body tries to stop it, his own throat tries to grab the words on the way out. He's done, though. He whispers one last, " _It's messed up_ ," and squeezes past the reporter and leaves his Corvette and its bird shit stain and he fucking bolts for the stadium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> football season starts next week :') AHHHHH


	4. Week 8 - Minnesota Vikings @ Carolina Panthers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tries.

Bucky doesn't remember a lot of things, still.

He doesn't remember watching his first NFL game. He doesn't remember who wrote _The Sun Also Rises_ , or the names of any of his English teachers. He doesn't remember his mother's address. He doesn't remember his first kiss. He doesn't remember his first kiss with a boy, and he doesn't remember the accident that killed that boy, and it took him awhile to realize they were the same boy. He wishes he could forget that part. He wishes he could choose. If he's got to forget so many things, he wishes he could pick and choose. Sometimes it seems like only the bad stuff stuck.

Things after the accident are easier to remember.

Like most of his college teammates' names, first and last. Like when the Giants won the Super Bowl his freshman year. Like the night Steve won the Heisman Trophy.

Bucky watched it. Actually made himself sit down with Domino's and cheap beer and pay attention to the ceremony and everything. He even watched the obnoxious bullshit media extravaganza even though he really just wanted to mute the TV until they announced the winner.

Also—and this is important—Bucky liked Pietro Maximoff. He might not be the funniest or most generous guy, okay, but he's got a good work ethic. Gotta respect that. Bucky liked him fine, and he liked him even better in Russian, and he really liked how many touchdowns he got because it made Bucky's job on defense a hell of a lot easier than it could have been otherwise.

But, uh, full disclosure? Bucky wanted Steve to win the Heisman.

If it had been anyone else, Pietro would have been Bucky's favorite, and if it had been anyone else, Pietro might have stood a chance.

Bucky remembers when they announced _Steve Rogers, Heisman Trophy Winner_ , for the first time, and he remembers Wanda yelling just about every curse word in English and Russian and slam-dunking her plate full of pizza into the trash can. He remembers thinking _damn, can she tell all the blood in my body just rushed to the surface of my skin, because wow_. _Maybe she thinks I'm mad, too._ He remembers Steve's speech, especially the part where he mentioned Bucky, because that was the part where Bucky's blood just evaporated altogether.

There he was, sitting all nice and innocent with his feet tucked into the couch cushions and Steve Rogers had the nerve to talk about _James Barnes_ on national TV. What a loser, first of all. Second of all, Bucky's ears still pop a little when he tries not to cry about it.

And third of all, Bucky would like to be able to say he missed the rest, because he was overcome with emotion or some shit.

But that would be a lie.

He hung onto every word that came out of Steve's mouth. Including the part where Steve Rogers came out on national television. What kind of superhero bullshit nonsense.

He remembers looking at his hands afterwards and seeing the little dents where his fingernails cut his palms.

* * *

Bucky thought about Steve's Heisman speech on Sunday, after talking to that reporter, while he walked from the parking lot to the locker room. Thought about fate and pride and shit. He half-expected everyone, his teammates and coaches and fans and staff and security guards, everyone, to all know what he did. Like they'd be able to see it slapped across his face. Like someone just dumped rainbow-colored paint all over him on the way to the stadium.

They didn't notice.

Of course they _couldn't_ know about it, though, because it was one reporter with a microphone and news travels fast but it don't travel through the sound-proof secret-sealed chamber of a Sunday locker room.

("Barnes! You ready for Washington?"

"I'm ready, man."

"Want a donut?"

Like, fuck yeah he wanted a donut. It was awesome, it was a normal fucking gameday.)

Sure, maybe SportsCenter was scorched and maybe Twitter was a wasteland of gossip, but how would Bucky know, how would any of his teammates know? He got a free day living in and out of the closet at the same time. He hadn't felt so safe on a football field in a long time. Maybe ever.

So Bucky played the best game of his life.

Coach put him in as a sub in the third quarter and the first thing he did? Tip a pass to James Rhodes for an easy pick-six. No one pulled him out for the rest of the game and the Panthers won for the first time in two months.

Sunday was great. No one squawked at him too much and Rhodes hugged him afterwards which was fan- _fucking-tastic_ and T'Challa even gave him a sort of cool-kid nod like "I got important press conferences to handle since I just scored four touchdowns but hey, you're not too bad either."

Sunday was great.

But it went by fast and now it's Monday and Monday is _fucking terrifying_. If Sunday was a free day, Monday feels like a sentencing. Sunday felt fake, felt like borrowed time, thank you National Football League. When Bucky wakes up on Monday, there's nothing borrowed about it. He doesn't get to keep anything.

It's probably too much to hope for the whole coming-out thing to get swept under the rug.

First thing Monday, Bucky wakes up to a handful of really intense text messages—like more texts than he's gotten maybe in his whole life.

_**Clint Barton  
** _ _u kno how i said u should get a twitter? nvm_

_**Kate Not Bradley  
** _ _Monica saw u on TV and wanted to say hi. Take care_

_**Pietro Max  
** _ _You have never said any of this! Wanda said I am texting you I hope you are ok!_

_**Ice Bradley  
** _ _Keep breathin man text me if u needa talk i think i held steve's hand 4 dis drunk convo like 90 times_

_**Sam Wilson  
** _ _BIG BUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!_

The one from Steve is the nicest and the one that freaks him out most, because it came in around 3 AM and all it says is _hey got wifi at the airport, about to take off at Heathrow, see you soon sort of, love you_

which sounds like Bucky's about to cry happy tears but also sounds like Steve hasn't heard the news. Of all people.

 

He feels eyes on him everywhere he goes. Watching him while he fumbles with the locks on his car, peering through the windows of the Corvette which are _tinted_ for crying the _fuck_ out loud so he's being ridiculous but still. Still. He still feels helpless.

And the walk from the parking lot, and through the lobbies and bright turquoise Panther hallways, he's burning up under this nonexistent spotlight. Bright fucking turquoise. What an obnoxious fucking color. He'd never fucking thought of it that way before but now it makes him want to barf.

Or maybe that's the nerves.

As he approaches the locker room all the lava comes to life in his guts. He's a goner, a goner, a total fucking idiot fucking goner _what_ was he _thinking_.

His brain is like twenty TVs all on different horrifying channels with teammates yelling and turning their backs and calling him names and coaches benching him for life—taking him aside and breaking the news. _You're just not a fit for our team_.

He reaches for the handle to the training facilities and breathes. In and out. Sort of. His lungs fight it but there's air moving. Fucking good thing he skipped breakfast, because can you imagine?

He breathes a third time and opens the door.

The locker room is over half-full. Two giant offensive linemen are arguing over a bet from last week. Williams sits on a folding chair and five teammates crowd over his shoulders so they can see something on his phone screen. ("…And she goes, 'mommy look, daddy did my hair!' And I for real thought her mama was gonna _piss herself_ trying not to laugh oh my god. Hey, what's up, Barnes!")

Bucky nods at him but can't manage any words at all because he's only got so much small talk in him, today—Williams is great, but if Bucky says anything now he'll probably start hyperventilating before the first film session.

He kind of waves a couple fingers, instead.

Jesus. Bucky never realized how far away his locker was from the door. Motherfuck. What a fucking walk. Spotlight spotlight spotlight holy hell just get him across the room without catching on fire or bursting into tears.

"Morning, kid."

Bucky jumps a little when Rhodes calls out to him. He tries to smile, but he can't all-the-way control the muscles in his face so he probably looks like he just swallowed a lemon but he tries.

"Good game yesterday," Rhodes adds.

"You too," Bucky tries. He tries. His vocal chords are all dried up and snapped in half but he tries.

He gets to his locker after half-a-minute or so, maybe half a century. And a pair of defensive linemen sitting nearby have their eyes on him, staring, watching really close but without the calculating look like T'Challa or Rhodes, and after a few seconds they stand up, still staring at him, and walk right out of the locker room.

So obviously they heard the news.

A lot of people in the locker room kind of go quiet. Like instead of the rousing chorus of obnoxious jocks celebrating a win, it's more like some feet shuffling and a few people talking in the corners.

Bucky looks across the carpet at T'Challa, who stares back at him. More staring.

T'Challa stands up, just like the linemen did—Bucky braces himself—and then he strides across the carpet, right up to the edge of Bucky's personal space, like whoa, and extends a hand.

Bucky blinks.

They shake hands.

"You played well yesterday, Barnes." T'Challa doesn't smile exactly but he doesn't look mad so Bucky isn't like, afraid for his life anymore, or anything.

"Thanks."

T'Challa drops his voice, not like I-got-a-secret-to-tell, but more like hey-I-want-to-talk-to-you-and-that's-all-that-matters. "What you said to that reporter yesterday was very brave."

Their hands are still clasped.

"Thanks."

"No, thank you," T'Challa says. His lips twitch. He lets go of Bucky's hand and half-turns before adding, "oh, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"I got a collar for my cat."

Bucky laughs.

* * *

There's not really a good word for when things don't live up to expectations. Not a pretty word. Not that Bucky can think of, anyway, which—that might not actually mean much. But he's _living_ it real hard, even though he can't think of a word for it.

He kind of expected the earth to split in half and swallow him up as soon as his teammates found out he was gay, but then it turns out to be just a Monday. The weirdest part is that they won the day before. (Fuck.)

Then there's a point where Bucky ends up standing next to Williams during practice, and the thing is, Williams is really a sweet guy but he's from a little town in Arkansas, bless his heart, so sometimes the things that come out of his mouth aren't 100% tactful.

For example: "So Barnes, does this mean you been checking us out in the locker room this whole time?"

He says it with a really huge goofy smile and he _clearly_ means well, but Bucky still cringes.

"Checking _you_ out?" Bucky forces a smile. "You think you look that good?"

Williams busts a gut laughing. "I _know_ I look that good."

As cringe-worthy moments go, it could have been worse.

* * *

At lunch break, Bucky checks his phone and finds nine missed calls from his agent and also nine voicemails, which seems excessive, because how many times do you need to say " _what kind of dumbass loudmouth fool are you, call me right now immediately_."

He's paraphrasing. But still.

Bucky listens to the first three voicemails before his breath starts to feel shallow. And a little shaky. And the corners of the room look shadowy.

He gets up and ducks out of the cafeteria. Ten minutes later, James Rhodes finds him outside, sitting against the brick wall, head between his knees. Bucky doesn't completely remember how he got there, but his lungs aren't leaking anymore, so that's a start.

Rhodes slides down the wall and takes a seat next to him.

He doesn't say anything.

Bucky tries to take lots of deep breaths.

After a few minutes: "Sorry. Am I late?"

"Nah, kid." Rhodes stretches his legs out and folds his hands in his lap. "You're good."

Bucky breathes some more.

"I talked to the DC," Rhodes says. "Talked about moving you up on the depth chart."

"Oh."

"You got good instincts."

"Nah," Bucky says. "I just know the difference between a Cover 2 and a Tampa 2."

Rhodes smiles at him, and then at the sidewalk, for kind of a long time without speaking.

Bucky inhales. "Um, Rhodes? Or should I call you James … or—"

"Oh god," Rhodes chuckles softly. "Please don't. Everyone calls me Rhodey."

"Right."

"James is the worst."

"Yeah."

"I mean—sorry," Rhodey sounds kind of skeptical but also a little guilty. " _You_ don't go by James, do you?"

Now it's Bucky's turn to laugh. "No. Definitely not."

"Is Barnes okay?"

"… I guess."

Rhodey looks at him for a little bit, then looks at the ground, and his eyes follow a little crack in the cement. "What do your friends call you?"

Weird question. It never occurred to Bucky before, but wow. People never have to introduce themselves in this profession.

Bucky doesn't really have a lot of friends—although he said that out loud once over the summer and Sam Wilson smacked him on the back of the head, which sort of sent mixed signals, but it's Sam, so point taken.

"It's Bucky," he says, finally, and glances at Rhodes.

"Bucky?" Rhodey tries it out. "Bucky Barnes." He doesn't ask where the name came from. Maybe the first person ever.

"Yeah." Bucky shrugs. He's already starting to forget about temporary breathing problems.

"Nice to meet you, Bucky."

"Yeah. You too."

* * *

It's literally the longest day ever. They don't even practice that much, since they're coming off a win, but when Bucky gets home that night, he feels like he just finished a week of three-a-days. He doesn't even make it through a shower, just kind of rinses off, then passes out face-down on the couch.

And the next thing he knows, a goddamn axe murderer is breaking into his fucking apartment.

He's in that unreal half-asleep-half-awake stage when he hears the front door clicking open, and that could be a dream; and then he hears the door click shut, and he is definitely awake. It's like adrenaline straight to the heart. His chest fires into fifth gear and his lungs suck in air just to catch up. He spins to a half-sitting position.

A tall silhouette stands in his entryway, fiddling with the deadbolt.

Bucky thinks, What the fuck.

Out loud, he says, "What the _fuck_."

The person turns around. "Hey," it says in a weirdly soft voice for an axe murderer.

"What the fuck." Bucky's heart pounds and he looks around the room for something he could use as a weapon.

"Sorry, I didn't want to wake you up, I—I didn't think you'd be on the couch."

The day comes rushing through Bucky faster than he can get oxygen. He scrubs at his eyes and thinks of sub sandwiches and squawking and curl flats on the strong side and his agent gnawing him down to the bone because the NFL isn't ready or some bullshit and—

"Buck?"

He reels a little bit. "What the fuck."

"Sorry I woke you up." The person drops a duffel bag and steps into the spindly light threading through the window.

It's not an axe murderer.

" _Steve?_ "

"Yeah, yeah, it's me." Yeah, yeah, he's tall and blonde and looks like Steve and he crosses the room and he eases onto the couch and sort of traps Bucky's thigh against the cushion.

"What the fuck."

"Hey," Steve whispers. His arm goes around Bucky's legs, which are still all twisted up in an American State blanket.

"You drove here?"

"I drove here," Steve confirms. "I came to see you."

"You came to see me." Bucky's breathing is hot in his lungs and his lips and his cheeks, now. It's like being awake. "You drove like a thousand hours."

"It's twelve, but yeah."

Bucky sways a little bit on his elbow. He scrubs his eyes again. The room looks normal. "… Am I awake?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah," Steve says, scooting closer. "You're awake." His arm is around Bucky's waist, now. It is hard and warm. Bucky's ribs kind of tingle like they remember being broken or remember being wrapped around his heart.

"You're really here."

Steve's arms go around him and hold him close. "Yeah, baby, I'm here."

Bucky hugs him back. _Don't cry don't cry he does sappy shit like this all the time don't cry_ , he thinks. And then Steve's fingers sift through Bucky's hair and his brain is like _yeah, easier said than done_.

"Steve."

"I'm here."

"What time is it?"

"Almost four."

 _Holy shit_. "I told you I could wait."

"I couldn't," Steve says. His voice sounds like candles burning and cotton balls. "I couldn't wait."

They sit together for a long time like that. They rock back and forth. Bucky might fall asleep again. He might have never woken up.

"How about we get you to bed?" Steve whispers. Like maybe he would let Bucky keep sleeping, but he feels obligated to make him more comfortable, too.

"Yeah." Bucky squishes his nose against Steve's neck and breathes, and he can smell the weird combination of laundry detergent and sweat. "When's the last time you showered."

"Fuck off." Steve laughs. His whole chest rumbles with it.

Steve starts to pull away, and the thought of showers and sweat and being cold again all kind of hit Bucky's brain at once, and he groans and clings tighter. "Steve?"

"What's wrong?"

He tries to hide the words in Steve's collarbone. He wants him to know, but he doesn't want to say it. "Steve, I did something stupid."

Bucky thought Steve would push him away and try to make eye contact, but he doesn't. He holds him closer, if anything. "Oh, baby," Steve whispers. His fingers thread through Bucky's hair. "No you didn't."

"What?"

"You weren't stupid."

"… You heard?"

"I saw it on ESPN when we landed in O'Hare," Steve says. His fingers curl across Bucky's scalp. "Plus Sam sent me, like, eighty texts."

"Eighty?"

"It was a lot."

Bucky breathes again. Sweat and soap. "You're really here."

"I'm here, Buck," Steve chuckles. "You wanna go to bed?"

"I wanna go to bed with you."

* * *

The first time Bucky's alarm goes off, he hits the snooze.

The second time his alarm goes off, he kind-of-almost remembers what happened a few hours ago. The middle of the night could have been a dream, easy. He could have imagined Steve and the moonlight and sweat and Tide. His brain is pretty stupid. But he wakes up slow and warm, too warm, in his bed, not on the couch, so it starts to feel real the more he gets conscious.

The third time the alarm goes off, Steve squeezes an arm around Bucky's waist and squirms until they're puzzle-pieced together, front-to-back, and Bucky can feel warm toes between his calves and morning wood trapped against his tailbone.

As if it wasn't hard enough to get out of bed. ( _Difficult_ enough.)

He inhales deep and rolls over and Steve ambushes him with a kiss to the lips.

"Mm," Bucky hums. "Morning."

Steve kisses him again.

Steve is such a good kisser. His hands always find just the right spots on Bucky's body, like the dip above his hipbone that makes his whole leg tingle, or the slope of skin between Bucky's jaw and his earlobe that makes his eyelids flutter. Bucky can't really keep up, he just tries to hang on and not disintegrate in Steve's hands. It's not just Steve's hands, either. His lips are so soft and he doesn't try too hard, like it's just perfect and easy and muscles slotting right where they belong. His breath is terrible, like Red Bull and not enough sleep, but they haven't kissed in—holy shit. They haven't kissed in almost two months.

How the _fuck_ did Bucky last a single day not kissing Steve.

He opens his mouth a little more and curls his tongue around Steve's top teeth.

"Hey, you," Steve croaks. "Don't start something you can't finish."

Their lips are still touching. Steve's dick twitches a little against the crease of Bucky's thigh.

"Unless you plan on finishing … ?"

Bucky smiles. "Sorry." He drags his bottom lip across the stubble on Steve's chin. His alarm starts beeping for the fourth time. "I got practice."

"That's what I thought." Steve kisses him quick and close-lipped. "Tease."

"Who's teasing?" Bucky looks at Steve's lips, and then his eyes. "You're the one with your fingers in my waistband."

"Get outta here, Barnes."

"Yeah, I got work to do, unlike _some_ people."

"It's my bye week," Steve smiles, and his eyes start to drift shut again. "I have a right to be lazy."

Yeah, Bucky thinks. Yeah. Still really hard to get out of bed.

* * *

The whole week passes like a dream. Day after day, Bucky keeps expecting to just _wake up already_.

Practice is a pain—literally—as always.

Reporters are nosy, as always. And weirdly, when they get too nosy, Bucky can pretty much count on his teammates to extract him from the situation.

("Has your team been accepting of you since you opened up about your sexuality?"

"Do you have a question about football."

"I'm just curious because—has it been a distraction for the Panther organization?"

"Well _hi_ there, are you here to talk about our game against Minnesota on Sunday?" Rhodey steps in loud and clear. "Barnes, why don't you go on ahead." He turns to the reporter. "Hi. James Rhodes. Defensive captain. What kind of questions can I answer for you?")

And the weirdest part of the whole week is that _Steve_ is there. He's always there. Bucky wakes up with Steve's arms around him and he comes home from practice to soup and sandwiches and spaghetti and he runs through his playbook while Steve rubs his neck and his shoulders.

Steve sleeps in late and talks to T'Challa's cat when she comes to visit.

The first time they have sex, Steve makes fun of him.

"I dunno, maybe _you_ should top," Steve says, which is rude as _hell_ because he's already got three fingers in Bucky's ass; "you gotta be able to walk through practice tomorrow."

"Steve Rogers so help me you better get moving or I'll staple your dick to a tree."

On Friday night, Steve orders pizza and they watch a shitty FBS game. (Fuck the NBA lockout, honest to god.) "So, how's Peggy," Bucky asks on a wild impulse, and then takes a disgustingly huge bite of pepperoni because he's done talking for life.

Steve finishes chewing before he answers. "Good." He looks at the TV and then he looks at Bucky. "She asked how you were."

Bucky takes another bite of pizza.

"I told her you were okay," Steve goes on. "I told her I missed you." He looks at the plate in his lap and pushes an olive in a little diagonal line. "I miss you a lot."

"I miss you too," Bucky says.

He feels like there's more he's supposed to say. It kind of ends there and he kind of destroys a pizza all on his own.

* * *

The whole week is surreal.

That's probably why the game on Sunday is such a disaster.

"Just keep it cool, y'all." Rhodey tries to make eye contact with the whole defense all at once. "Keep it cool, you're faster, you're better, you're stronger."

"You got it."

Rhodey nods at the huddle, nice and sharp and meaningful. "Third and seven."

"Strong Tiger 2," Bucky barks. "Cover 2."

"Break."

On the next play, a Minnesota tight end trucks Bucky for a first down. Like, Bucky makes the tackle, but he kind of gets flattened in the process.

"That's right, bitch," the tight end growls at him while they're still a little tangled up on the white-sideline-paint. "Stay down and we'll keep fucking you. You like that, right?"

Which isn't the first obscene remark he gets from an opponent and also, surprise, not the last. He loses track of how many times he gets called a fag in the second quarter alone.

Although, on the plus side, he _plays_ the whole second quarter. And starts the third. So who's really getting embarrassed, here, is the point.

The real kicker comes in the fourth quarter. And not _kicker_ as in _now-with-the-34-yard-field-goal-attempt_. _Kicker_ as in the _icing on the cake_. _Icing on the cake_ as in _the thing Bucky should have expected all along_.

The Vikings quarterback is like a planet unto himself. He's huge and everything rotates around him. And when he hikes the ball in the fourth quarter, Bucky reads him right off the snap. He knows he's gonna go to the dickwad tight end in a shallow slant.

And when Bucky goes for the tackle, they both lower their heads at the same time.

Steve Rogers is somewhere in the crowd. He's yelling, probably, yelling like the rest of the crowd which is mostly turquoise and black and there's lots of Carolina jerseys. There's lots—Bucky collides with the Minnesota tight end and thinks, _hell_ , thinks, _fucking_ hell, thinks, I've tackled Steve a few times, I can't _ever_ just not tackle Steve. Bucky crumples from the waist up. He can feel it like his spine is a fault line. How many more times.

"Barnes?"

One time, in high school, Bucky gave up on his route to cut off a linebacker gunning for Steve Rogers.

"Barnes?"

Toro played football. Toro played defense. Bucky can't remember what position. But he was small, so probably safety or cornerback, maybe linebacker, but Bucky could slot his thumbs right over Toro's hip-bones so he must've been _real_ small, probably cornerback. But he was short, so—

"Barnes."

His shoulder is on fire. The big bone in the back of his neck is burning. He needs a shot. He needs a doctor, they would be all over him at Southeast. He needs—

" _Bucky!_ "

It feels like summer again in the bright lights, with the sand trapped in his eyelashes. It _feels_ like Steve's birthday. God his shoulder hurts. Steve would be so mad.

"Bucky," a voice sounds in his head. If he's even awake. "Bucky, I need you to look at me, kid."

Not this again. It's some kind of Stephen King Carousel Ride. If someone wrote this in a story, people would think it was dumb, but here he is again, here he is, there he was, head out of whack.

" _Bucky_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i dont know how i feel about this chapter, but i just watched a lot of great college football games, so i'm inspired.
> 
> 2\. if you ever have any questions about football or headcanons or "mab wtf did you mean when..." seriously, don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> 3\. i keep forgetting to mention: i'm on tumblr at [queenmabscherzo](http://queenmabscherzo.tumblr.com/).


	5. Week 9 - BYE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Carolina Panthers' bye week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out the [WONDERFUL artwork for this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7904542) by [CapCarterandSarge](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CapCarterandSarge/pseuds/CapCarterandSarge). Thanks darling, your patience and talent are unparalleled :D

Steve's first thought is not a thought at all. It's just a burst of deafening static and blinding fire and the next thing he knows, he's flying down the stairs two-at-a-time, shoving Carolina fans aside and squeezing around baffled vendors. He almost upends an entire cooler of beer on a stunned stadium employee, but he's there and gone and throwing an apology over his shoulder before the poor salesman even finds his balance.

God, this is why he should have gone with the box seat, he'd be closer to important people who could take him where he needs to go.

But instead he chose the middle of a section of turquoise seating, a few rows back, and now he's got to fight his way out to—

To where?

The static dies away and he comes back to himself at the bottom of the concrete steps. He throws himself against the rail, looking frantically between the jumbotron and the crowd of trainers on the field. Bucky is there still, in the middle of it all— _god_ he's so far away—Steve's limbs tremble with the uselessness of it.

They were so close to the end of the game. They were so close—one minute of game time. One minute away. Bucky would have been fine.

To his left, a grey-haired woman stands at the end of the row, listening to a turquoise set of headphones. Fans do this pretty regularly: listen to the game on the radio while watching in person. The broadcast often has more information than you can actually get in the stadium.

Steve blinks at her for a second before touching her elbow—gently, he _concentrates_ on being gentle, because he feels like he could rip a pick-up-truck in half with his bare hands, right now.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

She looks at him and smiles, eyebrows raised.

"Have they said anything about—about Barnes? About the injury?"

She looks surprised by the question. "Not much, yet." Laying a hand on Steve's forearm, her eyes glaze over a bit while she listens to the earpiece. "They're saying it sounds like upper body—could be his neck or his shoulder or his head."

It's like firing a trigger. Steve forgets to thank her, even, he's just gone. Digging his phone out of his back pocket and tearing toward the nearest gate.

He pulls up his contacts and dials while blazing a path through the crowd of Panther fans. The phone rings twice; endlessly.

"What's up Steve, aren't you—"

"Sam, are you watching the game?"

"—at the … what?"

"The Carolina game, Sam, are you watching the Carolina game?!"

"Yeah, they just got back from—"

"Is he okay?"

"He went down hard."

"I saw _that_." Steve is about to have a goddamn aneurysm, see if he doesn't. "But are they _saying_ anything? Do they know what's wrong? _Is he okay?"_

"Man, I don't—I think they're talking about old shoulder problems?"

"What happened?"

"He got rocked, Steve. The other guy lowered his head and got the side of Bucky's helmet and everything."

"Holy shit," Steve gasps, and his voice comes out high and thready and fibrous. "Not—holy shit."

"He moving around though," Sam says quickly. "He ain't like—unresponsive—"

"He's moving?!"

"Yeah yeah yeah! He's getting up now, he's moving. They're taking him to the locker room."

"He's _walking_?!" How did Steve miss this, how is this happening, he has to _be_ there.

"The trainers are helping him."

"Oh my god."

"He's going to the locker room but—Steve, come on man, the game's gonna be over in like thirty seconds, just wait until—"

"Thanks, Sam." Steve ends the call without thinking and jets toward the cavernous concrete entryway. Under the stairs, he catches sight of a staff entrance and immediately squares his shoulders. Slowing to a power-walk, he strides to the door and walks through it like he belongs there. Just move with confidence and no one will know the difference.

His heart keeps frantic pace with his feet; two beats per step. At least. He can feel it in his temples and his throat and in ripples behind his eyes.

"Sir—?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Steve brushes them off like flies.

He dropped Bucky off at a couple practices, during the week. He remembers where one of the inner locker room entrances is, and points his heartbeat there.

Then he rounds a corner and stops in his tracks. There's security. Of course there's security. It's an NFL locker room. His chest heaves. There's got to be something—

A dozen yards away, there's a giant industrial laundry cart full of staff T-shirts. Steve stares at it for a split second, imagining it. If he just distracted the security, he could grab—

"Um, sir?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Steve says automatically.

The security guard takes a step closer. "Are you Steve Rogers?"

For exactly one peaceful second, Steve's brain goes blissfully blank.

"As in, the Chicago Bears Steve Rogers?" the guard asks again.

Steve blinks. "Would that get me in the locker room?"

The guard's face curls up, utterly baffled.

At that second, for better or for worse, Steve's phone rings. When he sees the caller ID, he almost drops his phone on the concrete—hell, he almost drops his ass on the concrete.

" _Bucky_ ," he gasps, "oh my god, talk to me, what happened, how are you?"

"Hey, sorry, this isn't Bucky." The voice on the other line is unfamiliar, but very obviously not Bucky's low growl, or his hybrid Texan-Dutch-Colonial accent.

"Where's Bucky?" Steve demands.

"He's here, he's fine," the voice says. "He asked me to call you and tell you not to worry. He said—"

"Why can't Bucky call me?" Steve's throat burns.

"He's getting the lowdown from the doctors. He got shook up. They just want to cover all their bases."

"Can I see him?"

"Not really," the voice says. "He's fine, though. He said to tell you to go home, and—"

"Go _home?!_ "

"We'll take care of him," the voice insists. "We'll make sure he's took care of, we got it under control. I promise—"

"I can't just leave without him!"

A sigh comes through the receiver. "He said you'd say that. All I know is, Bucky wants you to relax, it's fine, he said to go home, man. We'll take care of him. Trust me."

Steve doesn't trust this person, he doesn't even _know_ this person—he doesn't even know who this person _is_. He's about to lose his mind, he's about to annihilate small country towns, but—but he trusts Bucky. This guy is using Bucky's phone, and Bucky said he's fine—

Bucky _always_ says he's fine, is the thing. Steve can literally feel himself tearing apart at the sinews.

He takes a deep breath and glances up at the pair of security guards. One of them has a radio out. They look like they'd rather call the police, but they'll settle for backup.

Steve breathes again, slow and shaky. "Okay," he says. He trusts Bucky. "Okay, I'll—I'll go."

"He's fine."

"Can you just tell him, tell him I'm here, tell him it's—"

"Look, I'm not your messenger-boy, I'm just trying to do my friend a favor, alright?"

"… Right. Right, it's—okay." Steve tries to swallow and can't, really. His throat is closing up. "I'll go home, just—you'll watch out for him?"

"He'll be fine."

"Thank you—!" Steve barely sneaks it in before the line goes dead.

He pockets his phone and looks at the security guards. They exchange a glance.

"Sir," one of them begins, "This is a secure area. We're going to have to escort you out of here."

Steve's skin is still tingling. He still wants to pick up a school bus and just throw it across the ocean. But the deep breaths are helping. Bucky's friend helped. Whoever it was.

The other guard—the one who recognized Steve—clears his throat. "You're not going to make this difficult, are you?"

"If I give you an autograph," Steve says, "can we just brush this under a rug?"

"I don't know—"

"Sure," the second guard interrupts the first. "My kid's a huge fan. You have a pen?"

* * *

The evening grinds down to a halt, there. Really grinds; brakes shuddering underfoot, skid-marks, the whole nine. The sun goes down, and Steve goes home, as instructed, and he tries not to think about Bucky—but that's a joke. Bucky is always on his mind, he'll never be anywhere else, like when the earthy pine scent of the woods fades into your subconscious after a long hike. You don't even know it's there, but you live in love with the reality of it.

So Steve goes home, and he worries about Bucky, and he does push-ups, which relieve none of his worry but at least give him a place to direct his energy.

He thinks about their plans, which were decided for them before they even had a life to plan, because that's the nature of the NFL.

Next week is the Carolina Panthers' bye week. They've already talked about Bucky coming to visit Steve in Chicago. Not that that's going to change, but Jesus—why should Steve just leave his boyfriend to fend for himself?

So Steve distracts himself from Bucky by doing things for Bucky.

That life was decided for him, too. Bucky is the only earth in Steve's forest.

When he finishes working on the computer, he sets it aside and does more push-ups. He's on his sixteenth set when he hears muffled voices and jingling keys at the door.

"It's open!" he calls, surging up from the floor.

He turns the knob just as someone else pushes the door open from the other side, and Steve stumbles, face-to-face with not only Bucky, but also last year's Heisman runner-up: T'Challa Bashenga.

"Rogers?" It's like slow-motion the way T'Challa's eyes grow round with the realization.

They blink at each other, once, and then the moment passes as fast.

T'Challa's gaze softens. "The doctors did not want him driving."

"They'd better not," Steve says.

In the dull light filtering onto the front step, Steve can see Bucky's cheeks turn red. "I'm fine," he mumbles.

He doesn't look bad, or anything, but "fine" might be generous. His left arm is in a sling, and it's shaped like a small boulder thanks to the fancy ice-pack strapped to his shoulder. Steve can see the bulky outline through his thin white Carolina T-shirt.

"Come on, Buck." Steve spreads a hand across the small of his back. "It's okay to take it easy."

T'Challa watches them closely.

Steve steps aside so he's not blocking the doorway. Before following him in, Bucky pauses and brushes T'Challa's waist with his free hand, "thanks for the ride. Sorry—I just." He stops, and his eyelashes flutter. "Whoa."

Instantly, T'Challa's hand is at his elbow. "Careful," he says, and at the same time, Steve tightens his arm around Bucky's waist.

"You sure you're okay?" Steve asks.

"You guys are so fuckin' dramatic," Bucky says. "Fuckin' soap opera here." Steve chooses not to point out that he and T'Challa might be holding Bucky upright.

"You'll be alright?" T'Challa asks, releasing him slowly.

"Yeah, good." Bucky drags his feet across the threshold. "Thanks, man, I mean it. Thanks for getting me home, I know it's a pain, I just—"

"No need to thank me," T'Challa cuts him off. "I'm happy to help. If you need anything," his eyes flick to Steve, "anything at all, please send me a message. I am in the 800 building."

"Thank you," Steve says. He gently takes Bucky's hand.

"Oh, and one more thing," T'Challa adds, "Orphan is a very good nurse." He smiles, and his teeth catch the light before he melts into the dark.

They exchange good-byes and Steve toes the door shut. "Who's Orphan?"

"The cat," Bucky says with a chuckle.

Steve hasn't seen the cat tonight, but she'll probably turn up at some point. "How do you feel, Buck?" he asks. "Really."

"I've been worse," Bucky assures him. "Way worse. I promise. This is all just a precaution."

"You sure?"

Bucky twists the hem of his T-shirt around one finger. He exhales deeply. "I'm tired."

"Sit down, then, geez, sit down," Steve says, steering Bucky onto the nearest couch cushion.

Bucky settles stiffly into his seat. He leans forward, reaching for his shoes, but stops half-way and groans.

Steve drops to his knees.

"Let me."

Bucky doesn't even answer, just sinks back against the couch.

Steve smiles. "You were amazing tonight." He begins untying Bucky's shoe and sliding it off.

"Well, we lost, so." Bucky rubs one eye. "That Viking quarterback is a freak. Like he's some kind of Norse god or some shit."

"Yeah," Steve chuckles and gives Bucky's calf a gentle squeeze. "Want the socks off, too?"

"Oh my god Rogers, what is with your weird sock thing."

"It's not weird!"

"You probably wear socks in the _shower_ ," he teases and gives Steve's thigh a gentle kick.

"I don't, and you know it."

Bucky tips his head back and closes his eyes. He doesn't say anything, but he looks like someone who's about to smile.

"What happened?" Steve asks, feeling serious again. He tugs the laces of Bucky's shoe. "Sam said—" _neck injury, helmet-to-helmet, doctors, unresponsive_ , "—well, he said it looked bad on the replays."

"Not really," Bucky murmurs.

Steve slides off the other shoe and sets it aside. For a second, he looks at Bucky's feet, both gathered in his lap. "You were on the ground for a long time," he says softly.

"Ugh," Bucky sighs. "They wouldn't let me up until I answered a bunch of questions. Like made sure my neck was stable. It was fine."

"You passed all the quizzes?" Steve slips a hand up Bucky's pant leg and removes the other sock.

Bucky huffs a laugh. "I guess."

"So what's the sling for?" Steve asks.

"They called it a shoulder sub-something. I don't know. It's not actually dislocated."

"Good."

"Yeah, they're just icing it and keeping it steady and everything. I can take it all off when we go to bed."

Breathless, he presses his thumb into Bucky's calf. "So how's your head?"

"Physically or emotionally."

"Physically." Priorities.

"Fuck." Bucky scrubs his face with his free hand. "Mild concussion."

"Oh, Bucky—"

" _Mild_ , Steve, I promise it's mild. They did a baseline when I got to Carolina, so it's really easy to figure out the brain stuff, now."

They did a baseline test, of course they did a baseline test; these people know what's wrong with Bucky and they know how to fix it. Of course.

"I promise," Bucky says it again, and says it smaller.

Steve tilts forward. He slides Bucky's pant leg up so he can press a kiss to the soft hollow next to Bucky's knee cap. He stays there and breathes for a moment, puffs of warm air fogging against Bucky's skin. It smells like sharp spices.

"You take a shower already?" Steve mouths the words against Bucky's knee.

"Yup." Bucky's muscles roll under Steve's lips. "Sorry."

Steve laughs. "We can make up for it later." He tilts his head to kiss the soft tissue under Bucky's knee. He's starting to forget anatomy. But it's a good spot, soft and warm, with coarse dark hair and a little bit of give under Steve's lips. Bucky would know what it's called—which ligament bends where, which soft spot is vulnerable and which bones protect the sinews.

Bucky straightens his leg a little and curls his toes into Steve's side. Steve flinches and laughs.

"If you tickle me, I won't rub your feet," Steve threatens.

"Yeah you will," Bucky calls his bluff.

Steve has never been happier to be called out.

With one hand, he rubs gentle circles around the bones of Bucky's ankles. He slides his other hand down the arch of Bucky's foot, digging in with one knuckle, and presses deep lines along the bones of his foot.

Somewhere overhead, Bucky sighs.

Steve continues with the foot massage, tracing between the toes and around the heel, smearing his fingerprints along the calloused sole. He works his way above the ankle. He kneads Bucky's calf. He pays special attention to the spot high on the Achilles tendon. If Bucky is anything like him, that's a spot that is always overlooked, and feels sore after every game; a spot that aches deep into the night, twitching even as you lay motionless in bed, wishing you could sleep.

When Steve pulls his hand away, Bucky makes a noise. A sleepy-cat whimper.

He switches to the other foot and gives it the same treatment. He can feel Bucky's muscles and their tired spasms, their half-hearted tremors like autumn leaves clinging to wood.

Steve slips his hand up the opposite pant leg. He drags the tension out of Bucky's Achilles tendon, then lets his fingertips creep higher, tender, slow; he traces quiet lines up to the soft, stretched skin at the back of Bucky's knee.

Another whimper catches between Bucky's lips, and Steve can hear his throat click when he swallows. He looks up, finally, and almost faints. Bucky's eyes are inches away from his, frozen wide.

"Thank you," Bucky says hoarsely.

Steve straightens, and all the muscles up his side-body strain toward Bucky's face. "My pleasure," he says, pressing their foreheads together.

"Bed?" Bucky whispers.

"Yeah."

It's easy to forget the night's anxiety once he has Bucky in his arms. Once Steve can hold Bucky's face in his hands and feel Bucky's real pulse travel along his lifeline, his heartline.

They end up seated on the bed, Steve braced around Bucky's back. He noses behind Bucky's ear and carefully works the fastenings on his sling. "You sure we can take this off?" he asks.

"Yeah, god, please."

And Steve does, because he would do anything.

He pulls Bucky's shirt off, too. The big, clunky ice pack is there, hard and secure, and Steve attacks its Velcro and buckles. He follows his fingers with kisses. Initially, Steve feels guilty undoing the trainers' good work, but the ice has already grown warm. He tosses the equipment aside and pulls Bucky to his chest, lying back in the nest of ruffled sheets and blankets.

"So," Bucky sighs. His body curves beside Steve's. "You're leaving in the morning."

"Yeah."

Bucky doesn't say anything right away. He breathes through his lips; Steve can feel it against the bow of his neck. Warm air and warm lips.

He tucks his nose into Bucky's hairline. "You're coming with me."

More breathing. "I'm what."

"I got you a plane ticket. We're flying to Chicago tomorrow."

Bucky's arms tighten around him, both arms, even the bad arm, and Steve feels it so deep. His chest aches, a tiny fire, a pinprick burning in a vast winter forest.

"Thank you," Bucky whispers.

They will fall asleep that way, eventually, with warm necks and warm skin and warm eyelashes.

* * *

It's almost like being normal, again. Steve and Bucky take Steve's rental to the airport and they go through security and they stop at Dunkin Donuts, where Steve gets a latte and Bucky gets a chocolate Long John. It's almost a mundane morning.

Once they're in the terminal, people start to recognize Bucky. He's wearing a Hornets hat and dark Ray-Bans, but they still recognize him. Some of them even speak up about it, tell him _good game_ and _how's the shoulder_ and _hope you're doing well_. Bucky fidgets with his sweatshirt and the brim of his hat, but smiles and thanks them all.

While they're waiting for Steve's coffee, a little boy drifts over and stares at Bucky. Just stares for awhile. He's wearing a Panther hat and a tiny James-Rhodes-43 jersey. Bucky smiles at him, but the boy is apparently struck mute with awe. Finally his sister—no more than seven—strides over and says, very clearly, "He wants your autograph."

Steve laughs. He doesn't think it can get any better, but as Bucky finishes his signature on the little boy's hat, a teenager approaches them with purpose in his feet and his eyes.

"Um, James? Barnes?" the teen says hesitantly.

Bucky smiles a little, but Steve can sense the wariness in his hunched shoulders.

"Sorry," the teenager runs a hand through shaggy blond hair. "I wasn't going to say anything, but my boyfriend said I'd regret it if I didn't. And that he might kick my ass. So …"

"Vanilla latte, no whip?" the barista calls. Steve goes to the counter for his drink, but keeps his ears open.

"I just wanted to tell you—I came out to my high school team last week. And, um. It's gone really well actually."

"Wow," Bucky croaks.

"Yeah, it just, I've been scared about it for a long time, but then you told the _whole NFL_ , so I thought—yeah. I just wanted to say … thanks."

From the corner of his eye, Steve can see them shake hands.

"Wow," Bucky says again. He clears his throat a little. "Thank you. I mean, thanks for telling me."

"I'm headed out to visit Oregon now, actually."

"Football?"

"Yeah."

"Holy shit," Bucky says, candid as ever. "That's legit, man. Good luck."

"Thank you." The kid starts to turn away, then adds: "For everything."

When Steve goes back to Bucky's side, Bucky is staring into the paper bag at his donut. He sniffs, audibly.

"Are you crying?" Steve asks quietly.

" _No_."

Steve can't see his eyes through the sunglasses, but his nose is really red. It makes Steve smile. He doesn't press the issue.

At their gate, Steve upgrades to first class so Bucky can rest better, maybe lay down with a blanket over his eyes. The doctors said flying with a minor concussion wouldn't be dangerous, but that it might be uncomfortable.

They're right. Take-off and landing are brutal, judging by Bucky's death grip on Steve's forearm and the soft whines coming from under his blanket. The rest of the flight is smooth, though, and he sleeps through most of it while Steve watches old episodes of Criminal Minds on the in-flight wi-fi.

* * *

It occurs to Steve as he unlocks his front door that Bucky hasn't seen the Chicago apartment since the day he helped Steve move in. They hadn't had much chance to unpack, and none at all to decorate. Not that there's much décor, but—well, he found a orange-and-blue patterned lamp at a thrift store he likes because it's Bears-colored. And there's the department-store art on the wall; a sort of abstract U.S. map in shades of blue. It's not nothing.

Anyway, the point is, Bucky hasn't seen any of this.

As he opens the front door, Steve wonders if he remembered to take out the trash.

He definitely didn't tidy up, but there's not much to tidy. His bed still looks like a Slumberland floor model, because—oh, God. He blinks at it for a second and instantly feels heat rise in his neck. When he turns around, Bucky is staring at the couch, which divides the studio in half and also has a small mountain of clearly well-used pillows spilling over one side.

Steve takes a deep breath and instantly, all the words just leave his brain. Whatever he might say. Gone.

"Something wrong with the bed?" Bucky asks gently.

"No. It—well." Steve rubs the back of his neck. _It's just so long and flat and cold._

"The couch might get a little crowded."

Steve smiles at his shoes. "We can use the bed."

Bucky turns away, but not before Steve catches a flickering smile.

"So," Bucky asks as he twists around the island into the kitchenette, "what do you have to drink?"

"Oh, god—beer, orange juice. The milk is probably bad. Sprite and Coke."

Bucky straightens up as he stares into the refrigerator. "This is Pepsi."

"Does it matter?"

As an answer, Bucky simply scowls.

"Oh, please." Steve rolls his eyes.

He watches Bucky close the fridge, and because he is watching, Steve can recognize the exact second that Bucky realizes what's hung on the refrigerator door.

Bucky stares at the fridge. Steve stares at Bucky.

"You started drawing again."

Steve breathes again. It's like feeling air in his lungs for the first time in his life. "Yeah."

Bucky lifts the corner of one of Steve's sketches so he can see the one underneath. He doesn't speak for a long time. A long, uncertain time.

"Buck?"

"They're really good," Bucky says hoarsely.

"Thanks."

Slowly, as if he doesn't want to tear his gaze away, Bucky turns to look at Steve. "When did you do all these?"

"About the time the season started." There are about a dozen drawings magneted to the fridge. "I found pictures of you from the first week, and then the second week, and then just … kept drawing."

Bucky. All of them Bucky. He's with James Rhodes in one, and he's in a Carolina Panther huddle in another; but so far all Steve has drawn, really, is Bucky Barnes.

"They're good," Bucky says again, staring at the sketches. A smile plays on his lips. "But couldn't you find a better model?"

"No."

Bucky looks at his toes for a second, then at Steve. His cheeks flush peach, and wouldn't that be great to draw, if Steve pulled out a set of pastels?

He doesn't know what to say. What would anyone say? Carefully, he goes to Bucky and wraps his arms around his waist from behind. He hooks his chin over Bucky's shoulder, and they rise and fall together with a sigh.

* * *

"I think I'm gonna drive down to Simon tomorrow during your long practice," Bucky announces on Tuesday, after Steve gets home from practices and team meetings, and once they settle on the couch with late-night snacks.

Steve has no idea where this came from. "You're going to … American State?"

"Yeah," Bucky says lightly. "I'm gonna hang out with Sam, see if Eli and the girls have some free time."

"… What the hell!" Steve sputters. He can feel a smile starting and _tries_ to give Bucky his sternest stare. "You're just going to leave me here?"

"I wanna see Sam."

" _I_ want to see Sam!"

Bucky stops digging through his bag of potato chips and gives Steve a withering look. "You can see Sam any time."

"Not really, we both—"

"I _never_ get to see Sam."

Steve can't help it, anymore—he laughs. Just laughs. Bucky is perfect and full of love and he's here, curled on the end of Steve's couch. It's too good to bear. "Does Sam know about this?"

"Nah." Bucky turns back to bag of chips. "I'll keep it a surprise. Think that'll impress him?"

"You're trying to impress Sam now?"

Bucky winks.

Steve can't help himself. "Here," he says, stretching out a hand. Bucky furrows his brow and hands over the Lay's. "Nope," Steve says, setting the chips on the floor. "I want you." He snags Bucky's T-shirt and pulls him in for a kiss.

A little surprised noise vibrates in their lips.

"You taste like barbecue," Steve says.

"You're welcome."

Bucky settles on his lap, the big muscles of his thighs bracing Steve's hips—the perfect place for Steve to rest his elbows. He hooks his thumbs in Bucky's waistband and curls his hands around the curve of his ass. Together, they relax into an easy rhythm.

As always, kissing Bucky is like standing at the top of a skyscraper and looking straight down. The same vertigo, the same breathless swoop in your stomach.

Steve slips a hand under Bucky's shirt, just to moor himself. He loves Bucky's back, holding the big coiled muscles in his hand, drawing circles around the little spine bones. They keep him tethered, keep him from drifting out to sea.

Bucky moans into Steve's mouth and that is a sound Steve would drown in without regret.

"God," Steve breathes, "You're such a good kisser."

Bucky pauses. He leans back just enough that Steve can see his raised eyebrow. "Who, me?"

"Yeah, you." Steve pokes Bucky in the side, and his other eyebrow goes up. Steve grins. "How many people do you think I'm kissing?" he teases.

Bucky's reactions all come at once, so fast they're hard for Steve to notice; he laughs, loud, and his thighs tense, and his eyes widen, and his wide eyes zero in on a point near Steve's breastbone. He doesn't smile. That, Steve notices.

"Bucky?"

He huffs again, like a laugh, but not.

"Bucky," Steve says. He runs a finger along Bucky's forearm, tracing his pale veins and the scar like creeping vine. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to kiss anyone else."

Oh.

That's not what Steve expected.

Wheels spin in his brain. "I don't want to kiss anyone else either, Buck."

Bucky keeps his eyes down. "When I think about kissing, I think about you."

Speaking of coming untethered. Steve holds Bucky a little tighter and tries to stay with him.

With the pad of his thumb, Bucky draws a line up Steve's chest, up the vertical line between his muscles. He says, "I can't even picture kissing someone else. There's just nothing there. Doesn't exist."

Steve stares.

"It's just you," Bucky whispers. "You're it for me."

Steve feels, still, like he is perched at the top of that skyscraper. Like he's heavy and weightless at the same time, trying to balance, all his muscles straining with nothing to strain against.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and blinks rapidly.

"Buck …?"

"I love you."

This, maybe, is like falling off the skyscraper.

"I love you too, Buck," Steve whispers.

"Yeah, but, I mean—I love you." Bucky spreads his fingers and his palm across Steve's chest. "I really love you, like I can't imagine not loving you."

Steve presses his hand against Bucky's back to keep them from shaking.

"I love you the way people shouldn't," Bucky says, eyes still fixed on Steve's torso. "If I think about it too hard, it just wipes the rest away. It makes me stupid, I love you so much."

"I love you too." _What else, what on earth could come close?_

"I'm sorry I don't say it more," Bucky finishes, his voice cracking.

"Oh, god, don't be sorry for that," Steve says. He grasps Bucky's hand and holds it against his chest, and squeezes so tight he can feel both pulses thundering against his heart until it's all jumbled together.

"I am, though." Bucky squeezes back. Their fingers feel hard and red. "You deserve it, and it's not that I don't _feel_ it, I just—sorry I don't say it more."

"Bucky, it's okay," Steve says, trying to prove it with his voice and with his heartbeat. "Bucky—you said it _first_."

Bucky starts nodding and can't seem to stop. His eyes flick up. They are bright and wet and Steve tries to hold onto them. "You remember that, right?" Steve asks.

"Yeah."

"I couldn't have done all this without you."

Bucky smiles a little—it makes Steve's whole body light up—and he takes a shaky breath. "I don't want to do this without you."

"Good," Steve whispers. He kisses Bucky softly, all the rose-flesh of their lips. "You don't have to."

* * *

On Wednesday, Steve practices and Bucky visits their friends at American State. On Thursday, they go out to eat at a little hole-in-the-wall woodsy bar in Boystown. They go for a walk afterwards. Bucky has never seen Wrigley Field in person, so Steve leads him down Addison to the ballpark and the Billy Williams statue and they take pictures of the iconic red marquee. After they cross the street toward home, Bucky turns around to look at it again, one more time.

"Hey, Steve," Bucky asks, still gazing at the neon _Home of the Chicago Cubs!_ sign.

"What's up?"

"What would you think about me retiring."

If anything could knock Steve off his feet—Good God. "Retiring?"

"Yeah." Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. "From football."

"I mean—wow." Steve reels a little bit. His first thought is _why_ , but that would sound like an accusation. His second thought is, "Whatever you want, Buck. It's up to you."

"I talked to Fury yesterday."

" _Nick_ Fury?"

"Yeah," Bucky says. He licks his lips. "I asked if he would let me on staff at American State."

"Oh." Steve stops trying to play catch-up. He just stands close to Bucky, blocking him from the cold wind, and tries not to lose footing. "You—oh. What did he say?"

"He said I'd make a good linebacker coach."

Oh god, oh god, oh god of all gods. "Bucky, holy shit. That's …"

"… Crazy?"

"That's _amazing_."

Bucky turns, finally, and looks at Steve. His eyes are blue, and they catch the little red neon reflections off the Wrigley marquee. "He said I'd have a job there, if I wanted it."

"Are you kidding?" Steve can't help himself: he's shaking: he reaches out and takes Bucky's hips in both hands. "That's—that's amazing. You're amazing."

"He said to wait, though—like, he doesn't want me to rush, or anything. He said to finish the season. And then decide."

"Oh my god."

"But it's my decision."

Steve catches his breath for a second and just stares. He can't take his eyes off of Bucky—he's _afraid_ to take his eyes off Bucky, and he's afraid to let go of him because he is _literally_ too good to be real.

When Bucky starts to blush, Steve smiles. "So you'll be working with Tony Stark."

"… Um."

"Right? You'd be with the defense, so you'd be on Stark's staff."

"Yeah, I'd be with the defense." Bucky carefully avoids Steve's eyes.

"… What are you not telling me?"

"Nothing."

"Why wouldn't you work with Tony Stark?"

Bucky heaves a sigh. "He might not … be at American State next year."

"What?!"

"Maybe! It's not official!"

"Stark's _leaving?_ "

"It is seriously the most confidential shit ever, Steve Rogers, keep your fucking mouth closed."

Steve stares at Bucky for a split second. "Okay," he says, and then kisses Bucky.

"Mh—" Bucky struggles half-heartedly; Steve can feel him smiling against his lips.

"You said to keep my mouth shut," Steve teases.

"What the fuck."

"You can keep my mouth shut for me."

"You are such a dork."

"Yeah," Steve sighs, and kisses him again. Bucky slides his arms around Steve's shoulders.

They don't make out in public for too long, or anything, but they take a moment. And after that, they start the leisurely stroll home. They're still four blocks from Steve's apartment when Bucky speaks up again.

"So, Steve. You wanna move in together?"

Literally all the hard wiring in Steve's body short circuits. He shoves Bucky against the nearest wall and kisses him senseless. They end up banging elbows and tailbones and shoulder blades into the brick and not caring in the slightest. They stop kissing, but only so Steve can hug him as tight as humanly possible and bury his tears in Bucky's hair.

His whole life comes back to this. His whole life means this, just this moment. Steve is the long-lived wood of a pine tree, and his roots have always been planted with Bucky.

Bucky laughs at him. "Not to be needy, but is that a yes?"

" _Yes_."

"Okay," Bucky says. "You know you'll have to commute."

" _I'll_ have to commute?"

"I mean, if I get a fancy new job at American State University," Bucky teases. "Yeah."

Steve pulls away so he can look at his boyfriend. "'If'?"

"I dunno." Bucky looks down shyly. "The season's going well, you know? The doctors are good. It's just—I don't know. I don't know if the NFL's right. For me."

"That's fine," Steve says, quite honestly. "Whatever you want."

Bucky take a deep breath. "I mean. Who knows when I'll hit my head again? Who knows if the next time will be bad? Like— _bad_."

Steve swallows.

"I don't remember a lot of stuff from high school," Bucky admits. "I don't remember the car accident, and some stuff before it. And community college is kind of spotty."

"I'm sorry," Steve whispers.

"But the thing is—I remember our first kiss."

Steve's heart skips.

"And I remember our first _good_ kiss," Bucky adds with a soft smile. "And I remember beating you and I remember you winning the Heisman. And this, tonight. This is good."

"Yeah, it is."

"I don't want to forget all that."

Bucky's speech is a like every season at once, Spring and Summer and Fall and Winter all bursting through his veins with bright colors. Steve tries not to cry. He tries.

"So we'll see," Bucky says. He takes Steve's hand. "I can figure things out. I got options."

"Yeah, Buck. You can do anything you want."

The best part—well, the best part is that Bucky can decide for himself. But the second-best part is that Steve will get to be there with him, figuring things out, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how did you like that teddy altman cameo in the airport?
> 
> when i started this sequel, i was really nervous, not gonna lie. targeting stands on its own pretty well, and i didn't think i could write a sequel that would do it justice. the outline for this story went through like, a dozen changes. i ended up cutting a million scenes i thought i could never cut.
> 
> but the more i worked on this, the more i felt like it wasn't entirely a sequel. it's part of targeting, and it's also its own piece. in the end, i just poured all my love for bucky barnes into it, and this is what happened. so it's not subtle, and it's not fancy. but i hope you like it. or at least i hope you like bucky.
> 
> thanks for reading, everyone :) you always help more than you know <3
> 
> [say hi on tumblr](http://queenmabscherzo.tumblr.com/).


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